


Little Flames

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Series: Smoke [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha! Thorin, Alternate Universe- Erebor Never Fell, BAMF! Bilbo, BAMF! Thorin and Co., M/M, Omega!Bilbo, a/o/b dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 15:04:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle is won, but the war hangs in the balance-and it threatens all. From the outside, orcs are gearing up for an all put blood bath, and from the inside, Thorin's court threaten to tear the mountain apart. Through it all, the Company will have to choose where they belong, and so will Bilbo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_ PROLOGUE _

__

_ Gandalf knocked on the door to Bag End, was admitted, and then left that same afternoon, a parcel under his arm, and a mission on his mind. He would find the son of Belladonna Baggins, and then he would find the meaning of all this nonsense. _

__

_ DWALIN _

__

_ Dwalin has the uncomfortable feeling that the scene he is looking at is, indeed, a sad one. In the chair is Thorin. He’s got a small, foldable table to his left, and he is reading reports, already mapping them in the ever growing compilation in his head, the way Dwalin often does with soldiers as they are added to his ranks. The only reason Dwalin knows this one is because Thorin told him more than a decade ago. He is healthy, and strong. The scent of Prime is muted in here, because he is also calm. Every now and then, he glances to his right. _

_ The hobbit lays in the bed next to Thorin. The sheets and his soft, loose tunic are both white. The blanket, thick and warm, is drawn up to the halfling’s chin, his eyes sporting dark circles, his skin as pale and almost as white as the bed, whose color makes him look even more sickly. The one spot of color is Bilbo’s hair, which had been carefully detangled and brushed and taken care of so that, after two years on the road, it once again shown soft blond in the light. It’s long, because it hasn’t been cut since the hobbit left his home. _

_ Thorin supposes that it wouldn’t be so bad, if the hobbit wasn’t asleep, as he has been for the past few weeks, on Oin’s potions and drugs. The idea is that if the halfling sleeps to through the most uncomfortable, and fragile, stage of the healing process, he’ll be better off when he wakes. They’re almost through this phase, as the hobbit is no longer suspended with straps above the bed, and definitely lays in it, now.  _

_ What’s sad about it is that when the hobbit wakes up (Dwalin still doesn’t know his name.) he’s going to not want Thorin anywhere near him. Unfortunately, Thorin’s got it bad, and there’s no backing out of this one for him. So yes, it’s sad. Unfortunately, Dwalin, and, now, Thorin, have business to attend to. _


	2. Open Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin deals with his people.

THORIN

Open Court is, and always will be, a pain in the ass. It’s valuable, though. His council sits with him, five on either side. Though those at the bench with him are powerful, Thorin is surrounded first by empty chairs. There are two to his right, for Dis and Kili, and one to his left, for Fili. None of them are here today, but Thorin wants it clear who influences him the most.

The chamber for Open Court is a round one, and a quarter of the room is lined with a tall, quarter circular bench*, which is where everyone sits, and while Thorin’s chair is made taking hours and hours of cases in, it’s not particularly fancy.

Partially, it’s because anything more than carving the stone and wood the chair is made of, any other decoration would just get in the way. The other part is because, while this room is mainly used for Open Court, it’s also used for Closed Court, which Thorin can call for anytime there’s a private case, or something he doesn’t wish to be known by the stone stands, which are carved in khuzdul runes as well, filled with alphas and, in some cases, their omegas. These omegas are mated, mostly. Only those who have been marked “unfit” are unmated and present.

As Thorin watches, a silversmith (alpha, aging, two children, one omega, deceased wife) is led in, Thorin almost immediately wants to bristle.

His child, the omega one, is roughly sixty, with another ten years or so before he is fully grown. He has a couple years less than that in safety, and then he is eligible for courting. Unfortunately.

The kid is being walked into the room. He’s angry, petulant, beaten, proud. Thorin immediately has eyes only for the child. He’s seen that look before. The Ri brothers wear it, as does every other omega in his inner circle. This kid is an anomaly, no doubt about it. Anomalies aren’t appreciated.

“Alpha silversmith Kobi, and his omega son, Lobi!” The heralds sound out in unison. There are two of them, and they stand on either side of the great doors. Because of the way the room is shaped, their voices carry from those two spots to Thorin, at the back of the room at his bench, with ease.

“My Alpha Prime Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, and direct descendant of Durin,” the silversmith sounds out, proud like the alpha he is. Thorin nods quietly, waiting. He knows what’s going to happen, and he hates it. He hates ones like this. He hates trying to think logically about illogical laws. He hates trying to make a fair judgement based on unfair principles and hierarchy. Dwarves, Thorin has learned, are cruel creatures.

“Speak.”

“I would request permission to enter my son into this year’s Ball.” Every three years, there’s a ball designed to mate alphas and omegas without all of the hunting down that went on before when dwarves ran in packs. Thorin cocks his head to the side and gazes at the kid. He’s fair haired, not particularly tall but traditionally beautiful. He would be matched almost immediately at the Ball, when it comes. Thorin has two choices. He can say yes, and save this kid a decade of trouble from someone who’s clearly a familiar foe, or he can say no, and save him a decade of trouble from someone unknown. Well, shit.

“Why?”

“I believe that waiting until he is of age would lessen his chances for finding a mate.” Yes, they would. At seventy, if Lobi decides he won’t mate, then he won’t, though he is still required to go to a Ball. Thorin glances down at his hands, staring at the roughened skin there. The laws on omegas are very simple, and Thorin has not been able to change all of them yet. Omegas are their parent’s property until they are seventy years of age and attend their first ball. After that, the omega can choose to stay or go.

All omegas are required to learn a trade, and no agreements can be signed between an omega and their parents until the omega has lived outside the home for no less than a month. If an omega is hurt during that time (i.e. rape) either physically or mentally, no agreements can be signed until an omega doctor signs off on that omega’s health.

The last four laws are Thorin’s making, because of all the underhanded, dirty work that’s done to keep control of the city’s omegas. The laws on Balls state that no omega/alpha can attend a Ball before they are seventy. (Thorin, as one might have noticed, has made a lot of changes).

If Thorin says no, he’s leaving that child with an obvious enemy, if the way the two hold themselves are anything to go by. If he says yes, though, the silversmith no doubt has a match picked out for his son. Thorin looks very, very closely at the kid- Lobi. There’s something peculiar about his face, as though he knows he’s already lost. Maybe, Thorin thinks, it’s his mouth. It’s twisted as though he’s in pain… Swiftly, Thorin vaults over the bench and lands gracefully in the ring. He strides up to the pair like the Prime he is.

“Open your mouth.” Thorin says, addressing the omega directly. It isn’t done, but nothing Thorin does is done. The kid shrinks and his father grows.

“Open your mouth, master Lobi,” Thorin’s voice is uncannily gentle; a testament to his knowledge of omegas. It works like a charm. The kid’s mouth opens. The dark cavern lacks a tongue. Thorin turns to Kobi and cocks his eyebrow, as if to say, Explain this away.

Tongues are only cut out as the most dire of punishments, and it’s generally an alternative to banning, which can be done only by the king/queen or his/her regent. Thorin, now standing slightly in front of Lobi, can see how it went down.

Among dwarves, omegas are more common than alphas. Because of this, omegas live in a state of slavery, most places. In Erebor, omegas have more freedom, but not enough at the same time. It’s not uncommon for a parent to decide to bargain their omega children off or simply make them “undesirable” in order to keep them under control.

This is one of the things Thorin’s been working on. Luckily for him, his reputation is well known. There are laws against certain things, and there isn’t a lot of leeway for those who choose to break these laws.

Thorin’s currently trying to reverse the laws about marriage and bonding, which makes an omega fully enslaved to their alpha, and therefore, if the alpha wants to cut his omega’s tongue, he or she can do that. Thorin doesn’t like it, but in this case, it may have saved Lobi’s life, or, at least, his mind. That rule only applies to the omega’s mate. His parents, however...

“Do you wish to explain why you’ve broken a law?” Thorin said in a low voice. It was a voice that would brook no arguments, and accept no theories on alpha dominance, or otherwise be swayed into excusing cutting out the tongue of a child omega. Thorin glances at Lobi. His jaw looks a little swollen, and the smell coming from his mouth speaks of infection.

“Lobi belongs to me.” Thorin cocks his head.

“Ah, well, I suppose that makes sense. Tell me, where are you going to put him while you serve time for cutting out his tongue?” The alpha is an unusually strong one. Not a Prime, of course, but strong nonetheless. He bristles.

“Lobi’s my property. I’ve the right to do with him what I wish.” Thorin doesn’t even flinch.

“Not according to the letter that was sent to you five years ago that forbid this sort of thing from happening. Also, there was a public event at that time that let all know that any maiming at all, including tongue-cutting, would result in the immediate removal of that child from both his home and his parents custody.” The alpha begins to sputter.

Thorin just watches him, face blank, waiting. Not expecting anything more than a temper tantrum, of course, but waiting still. Sometimes, listening to the excuses of his people helps him to keep the very same things from ever being a legitimized claim.

“My King.” Someone says from the bench. Thorin turns around and, with his hand on the shoulder of Lobi, regards the speaker.

“Yes?”

“A word?” That is the signal for “there’s something I want to say and I’m not about to say it in front of everyone because it really wouldn’t end well that way.” Thorin strides up to the bench and waits for the quiet whisper.

“Perhaps it would be better to let this one go.”

“And why’s that, Beta Monden?” Monden, son of Londen, of the Longbeard clan, is one of Thorin’s more level-headed advisors. As a beta, he has no dog in this fight, so Thorin is more willing to listen to him than to anyone else.

“Because that man is a Master silversmith, and if he is upset, his very large, very influential family will be in this courtroom shouting their heads off. If they don’t do that, they’ll be out in the streets sowing discontent. You are already on the bad side of many an alpha.”

“You know the laws. I made them with you sitting next to me, throwing scenarios at me.”

“At the very least, don’t take the harshest punishment.” For a moment, Thorin and Monden stare at eachother. Then Thorin nods, and walks back to the center of the room. He addresses the alpha.

“I suggest you settle your affairs. Return here in a week’s time for a Closed Court session. Lobi will be taken to the healers. I can smell the infection in his mouth.” The sentence was calm, and, had Thorin been anyone else, it would have been questioned, dragged out, and picked over. As it is, you don’t mess with an Alpha Prime. It’s a good way to get yourself killed.

An omega healer steps forward. Thorin recognizes him. He’s one of Oin’s best. Thorin’s hand is still on Lobi’s shoulder. That shoulder, calm under Thorin’s protection, once again stiffens. Omegas are generally separated when they’re young, so that they don’t form secretive habits and lie for each other when they are older.

“Lobi, child, he’ll not hurt you. He’s here to make your mouth feel better.” The silk in Thorin’s voice isn’t heard by the rest, but Lobi catches the warmth there. He catches the compassion. He understands, now, why his daddy and his friends hate Thorin. Thorin cares. Lobi lets the healer touch him and guide him out of the room, while Thorin goes with them to the small door in the back before turning and ascending the hidden steps to get back to his seat.

Monden nods at him in approval. Every now and then, Thorin really puts his foot in it. Unfortunately, good relations are important to his continued existence.

A Closed Court sentence isn’t the same thing as an Open Court one. The latter is designed to be embarrassing. It’s supposed to bring shame. It’s meant to let everyone know what’s deserved. A Closed Court sentence does none of that. By taking away the onlookers, it reduces the shame factor. Aristocrats get Closed Court sentences. Thorin was about to give an Open Court sentence.

Thorin stops himself from rolling his eyes. Honestly, if Kobi didn’t want the damn punishment he should have, oh, Thorin doesn’t know, maybe shown a little love to his kid. He tamps all that down, however, as he glances at the ceiling as the bell chimes out the twentieth hour.

Thorin gathers his papers- mostly law papers and revisions he’s been playing around with while his court deals with whatever offender stands in front of him in the ring. Thorin usually deals almost exclusively with those who break laws concerning omegas. Everything else he trusts his advisors with.

Thorin strides out of the door with a nod to all. He tries not to think about the fact that he’ll be back here in the same tomorrow. For now, he wants to go see the hobbit and check on Lobi.

DWALIN

Dwalin is… pissed. Well, not really. He’s kind of worried, kind of dreading seeing Thorin, and mostly pissed. So, yeah. He finds Thorin in the healing rooms, leaning against the doorway, handing what Dwalin has come to recognize as a bag of candied somethings to a beta doctor. The doctor will give it to whoever just got here. Looks like it was one of those cases that always makes Thorin mad to the bone. It shows, too, when they practice with each other. Their dueling feels more like a fight to the death.

“I have news for you.” Dwalin says conversationally as Thorin turns away and the two of them make their way down to the end of the hall and into a private room. The guard at the door steps aside to admit Thorin and Dwalin. In Thorin’s hand is a leather portfolio. Dwalin stops himself from smiling as the king turns to him.

“What is it?” Dwalin hands over his own sheaf of papers.

“Orcan skirmish parties have raised the bar. We’re up to one or two a week. Before that, it was maybe one in a month.”

With the Iron Hills east of Erebor and the Running River and the great, empty, nurture less planes to the north and south, the only direction orcs can come from is the west. There’s just two places where  Orcs can get through. They can go either way around the Mirkwood. No one dares go directly through the Mirkwood. Not even orcs fancy the giant spiders and their elven hunters.

Dwalin supposes he should have suspected this. Weeks, it’s taken them to pick up their game. Now that they have, Dwalin thinks it’s not going to stop. Maybe they’ll plateau. Maybe they won’t. Either way, Dwalin’s almost certain Azog’s not dead.

Thorin turns from him to set the papers down.

“What do you need?”

“Nothing, right now, but things are getting just as heavy outside as they are in here. I didn’t want it to take you by surprise.” It’s a loaded statement, but neither of them are going to address it.

Dwalin glances at the hobbit and wonders if the halfling will stay beyond when he has to.

“I’ll see you on the morrow?” It’s a phrase Dwalin has said many a time. When the two of them practice together, they usually do it before either of them are missed, which is early in the morning. Thorin nods.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeey I'm off groundaaaatiooooon. (for now)


	3. Diplomacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin has to talk his way around the master of Laketown, and Bilbo wakes up.

BILBO

His head feels heavy, like it’s being held down. But he’s laying in something soft, so he’s not particularly worried about his situation. It’s not that he shouldn’t worry, it’s just that, in his experience, all the bad stuff happens after you open your eyes, not before then.

Right now, no one is touching him, he’s laying in someplace nice, he feels as tired as a worn joke, and he’s warm. All that, if he opens his eyes, may very well change, so he keeps them closed and shifts slightly on the bed, so that he’s not so pressed against the ache in his back.

He hears the sound of a door opening- he can’t remember the last time he was in a place where a door must open to be entered- and the heavy smell of alpha fills the room. It’s not like anything he’s smelled in a long time, because whoever this is is calm. He decides to definitely keep his eyes closed, because he really would rather not face anyone who could be not-calm if he looks awake.

Something is set down on a table of some sort, and there’s the muffled sound of someone sitting very near Bilbo. He hears the swish and slide of paper, and the rough language of his captors quietly fills the room and draws Bilbo like a magnet.

It sounds like something is being folded, and then there’s the soft tap of it being set between the two occupants. The half grunt of a throat being cleared and a second swish of papers reaches Bilbo’s ears before the clink of a glass something is the only fanfare for the settled near-silence that falls.

Every now and then, there’s the scratch of a pen, something scraping, and a page turning or being set aside. The door- it sounds wooden- opens again, and a slightly deeper voice fills the room. There’s a short conversation, and then the door closes. It goes on quietly like this for a while, and Bilbo thinks that maybe he drifted in and out.

The door opens again, and it’s not an alpha that comes, like last time, it’s a beta. Again, there’s the rough language of his captors, and then a hand touches Bilbo, and he immediately jerks away, and bares his teeth. His senses, dulled by the cotton feeling in his head, jerk fully awake, and Bilbo realizes why the person who’s been sitting next to him is familiar.

The dwarven king looks different than he did when Bilbo last saw him or when he’s sitting up on his dias. In fact, he looks tired, but that doesn’t stop Bilbo from pushing himself stiffly away. His back hurts still. The dwarven Prime is putting papers into a leather portfolio, and before Bilbo can panic at his continued presence, he’s gone with a nod to both the old dwarf and Bilbo.

It takes a long time for the old dwarf to calm Bilbo down. But when he finally does, all he wants to do is change Bilbo’s bandages. Bilbo would stay awake to question, maybe, but tiredness is already weighing him down again, so it’s nothing for the healer- Oin, as he introduces himself as- to get Bilbo settled again. The last thing he sees as his eyes droop closed is a small, vanilla paper crane, sitting on the still unfolded table.

DWALIN

The high, piercing sound of the bells of the Little Alarm is a call to arms, and a squad of soldiers files out in riding armor. At their head is Dwalin. Like his men, he’s black against the bright white snow. It’s so thick that even the dirt prints the horses leave behind do not melt into the mud.

Dwalin, at their head, has his gaze and his entire, bald, helmeted skull swiveling back and forth. The alarm said this was a large group. There, in the distance, and closing in on Dale, is the pack. At two and a half score* strong with a big orc at its head (it’s not The Orc, but Dwalin’s not quite interested in losing men to him), Dwalin’s squads (eighteen of men, in teams of three, not including himself) lean forwards on their horses and urge them into gallops. If they reach Dale, the men will have to defend, and most men who don’t travel aren’t much better than orcs, especially if they haven’t seen war for quite some time.

The clash is bloody, and, as Dwalin and his six squads do “run bys”, only one of his men gets hurt, and he’s not hurt deeply. Dwalin beheads an orc with Grasper and sees, ahead of him, what those orcs were aiming at. Dale had a fire here. There’s a hole in its wall. Oh, no. With the orc pack down to nineteen men, by a rough estimate, Dwalin calls out orders, and squad one and two veer off to follow him through the gap in the wall, chasing after the orcs who came here. The bell was wrong. The amount of orcs on the outside is the same on the inside. 

“Take them!” Dwalin jumps from his horse and rolls, the way Thorin did weeks ago out on the open plains, in sight of the Mirkwood. He runs an orc through with the tip of Keeper, in his left hand, and pops the knees of another with Grasper, in his right. Ten minutes, and in that time, with men clogging the path forwards and men clogging the path backwards and arrows raining from the buildings, ever orc is killed.

Dwalin, with another shout, is back out of the opening and into the battlefield outside. It, too, is still, and his men have begun to pile the bodies. Dwalin nods the the leader of squad three, Aster, oldest of the brothers Er. Then he goes back to the city of Dale. He has words to speak with it’s master.

…

Varian “Money Bags” Smith is the Master of Laketown. He is, in a way, a lot like Thorin’s grandfather was, towards the end of his life, before dementia took his memory and his instinctual love of gold. That, Dwalin remembers, was an unfortunately thin time. If memory serves him correctly, the Ri brothers got some of the worst of it.

“Dwalin, son of Fundin, Captain of Erebor’s Guard,” Varian chimes out as he makes his way into the close quartered room and behind the desk at which Dwalin stands in front of.

“Good morning, Master Varian.”  Diplomacy. Diplomacy. Remember that. If Thorin’s thickheaded self can do it, so can you.

“Heard you tore a hole in my city.”

“That would be the doing of the orcs. As it is, you’re supposed to have men watching for them, but no alarm was put up.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“Erebor has its ways of knowing.” Dwalin says evenly. He’s here to discuss the fact that Varian’s walls are weak, his guards lazy, and his lands coming under siege, slowly but surely. All of this has to be broken gently, so that some progress can be made.

“And yet you hound me to pull my people from valuable jobs. Tell me, Captain, why I should even bother when you send your spies here?” Varian, Dwalin has noticed, is an excellent manipulator. He doesn’t believe in the whole spy shit (because the only spies here are Nori’s, and Nori’s people don’t get caught), but he knows how to work Dwalin around from calm to angry. It’s Dwalin’s job to not let that happen.

“There are no spies here, Varian. And you should bother because Erebor does not give out charity to a leech city.”  Great. Nice going, Dwalin. Call him a leech, why don’t you? See how charitable and open- minded he is, now.

“Really? And yet you’re here.”

“For now, but if the orcs keep skirmishing and wind up sieging Erebor, it’s only what can be spared that will be coming here, and it won’t be much.” It’s a veiled threat.

“Besides, poor is the city that won’t take up its own arms.” Dwalin says as a parting, balance tipping shot. Varian Smith is a greedy man. He doesn’t like the idea of poverty.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Then the Captain of the Guard is gone, headed back to his people. Varian will take the yoke. Even if Thorin has to come down here and talk him into not relying on the dwarves, he will take the yoke. In this time of upcoming war, he will have to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	4. Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of various things happen, with some world building in between.

BILBO

The next time he wakes up, his head’s still heavy, but not as much as it did before. He sits up slowly, calmly, remembering the doctor and remembering the Raven Man and most of all just feeling his sense of awareness come back to him.

As carefully as he can, Bilbo swings his battered and too thin legs out from under the heavy blanket and sets his feet carefully on the floor. He can’t help but noticed that someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to keep him alive and make him better, because, even though he feels like he’s been up against a Prime in a fight, it’s muted, like he’s mostly healed.

It makes him wonder. There’s a small bathroom (god, it’s been so long since he took a piss in a proper bathroom) and Bilbo makes his way to it. He undoes the laces at the neck of his infirmary white tunic and lets the cotton fabric slide down his arms (they didn’t used to look like this, so stripped of both muscle and fat) and body. It hits the clean wooden floor, but Bilbo doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy staring at himself. 

From shoulders to waist, Bilbo is wrapped in crisp white bandages, changed less than an hour ago, if his basic healer’s learning was anything to go by (his mother seemed to think he would one day have use of all the things she taught him. Who knew she’d wind up right?). Bilbo wonders how long he’s been out, because it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it should have. The wooden door opens, and Bilbo struggles to pull on his tunic before someone sees him without it.

“You still in here, kid?” He recognizes that voice. It’s the Sneaky One. Bilbo thinks the Sneaky One is safe. As quietly as he can, Bilbo makes his way to the door of the little (by dwarven standards) washroom and pokes his head ‘round the wooden frame. The Sneaky One has his hand resting in a spot on the bed where Bilbo had been laying, checking for its warmth. Bilbo watches until the Sneaky One turns around, brown eyes latching on to dark blue ones.

“You’re pretty quiet, kid.” The Sneaky One says.

“What’s your name?” Bilbo takes a step backwards. They always start like that- with the name. Then, they want everything else. The Sneaky One cocks his head to the side.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell. Carefully, Nori raised his hand in offering.

“I’m Nori.” Bilbo stares. Take the hand. Don’t do it. Do it. Don’t do it. He could definitely do it. He could have a friend in a place of enemies. He could not do it. He could not expose himself to someone he’s called the Sneaky One in his head. That doesn’t bode well, really. But he wants a friend. He misses sitting next to people. He misses laughing. He misses waistcoats and tea sets and doilies and children. He misses being required to bathe before receiving company and he misses politics because, quite honestly, politics don’t take place among your enemies (well, sometimes they do, but that’s not the point).

He could tell Nori his name. Or he could not. He could have a friend. Or, he could not. he could make himself just this little bit vulnerable. Or, he could not. Bilbo nods and steps beyond the door for the first time. Nori smiles. It looks genuine.

THORIN

The fact that the hobbit is awake doesn’t stop all else, though Thorin wishes it did. No, it’s more like one more thing on Thorin’s plate. He stands on raven hill, on the snow, with the early pre-dawn light leaking across the sky, and thinks about the things that will have to be dealt with and the things that can be dealt with, versus the things that can’t.

Varian is being difficult. That can be changed.

The halfling is terrified of him. That can’t be changed. Not until the hobbit is ready for him.

The orcs are attacking more. He’ll have to speak with Thranduil and see if he can cut off the orc’s route to the Ereborian planes. At least that way, he’ll have a little breathing room to work with Varian. 

Dis is mad at him. He felt it yesterday. Well, maybe mad isn’t the right word for it, but something is. Irritated, maybe? What did Thorin do to “irritate” his sister? No fucking idea. Still. He’ll have to work on that as well.

He needs to speak with Dwalin.

The Ri brothers are bringing back higher accounts of unrest. (Really, he saw that coming)

Azog will eventually be back.

“You know what they’re calling you now?” Dwalin calls from behind him. Thorin turns and watches his best friend approach.

“No. What do they call you?”

“Oakenshield.” Well, then.

“Who-?”

“Well they had to know why Linir’s dead.” Fair enough. Oakenshield, hmm? Not too bad.

**  
  
  
  
**

DORI

Not many are put off by Dori, for all he’s a war omega and those omegas are “useless”. The thing is, you just don’t come across omegas like him very often- strong enough for you not to have to worry about him but still skilled in things like housekeeping and child raising all the same. Dori is one of the most eligible omegas in the mountain, considering the fact that he also has a successful teashop and a respected place in the market.

That is why, at least once a week, there’s some kind of gift waiting for him. It’s generally a small box with a piece of jewelry, plain in design, and bearing no more than two runes on it. Dori picks up today’s box- sky blue (hmm)- and opens it. In it is a short silver flat link chain, bearing no rune (common). It’s a token.

Tokens are always the first gift of courting. Generally, they are given to the omega’s guardian, and then the alpha guardian and the alpha suitor sit down and have a chat. Then, if the chat is successful, the token is given to the omega, who is expected to put it on. That’s the start of a courtship that lasts no more than three months and is generally ended by a heat.

If the omega doesn’t have a guardian, this kind of nicety is usually skipped over. Alphas just have to kidnap them and wait for their heat. None of this works with Dori, because he’ll castrate an alpha with his bare hands before he lets anyone touch him during a heat. So, yeah, this is one of the tokens of old.

It used to be that tokens were given once at the very beginning of the courtship and weren’t given again until the end. The basic idea behind the small pieces of jewelry (and, very, very late in the courtship, the large pieces of jewelry) is that the more an omega gets and the more suited it is, the better the bond and more fertile the omega is.

He thinks about Ori and the amount of tokens he’s melted down and left in lumps where they were originally found. His brother is sixty-nine, and just a few years away from being fully grown. When he is grown, Dori no longer has the right to melt down tokens, and the courting will really pick up then. The idea- nay, the deadline- scares him.

Dori takes the box to the back room of the shop and sets it on a shelf. He’ll have to deal with this later. For now, it’s time to open.

DWALIN

Sixteen new recruits- sixteen dwarves passed their majority between last year’s Induction and this year’s one- stand in one big group, decked out in their first set of practice armor. Most of them can fight, some of them can fight well, and a few of them have the look of a leader about them. 

Among them are Jasper and Alabaster, the youngest of the Er brothers, looking to follow Aster into his military career. The both of them can shoot, Dwalin knows, and he’s thinking of putting them in the archer’s squadrons.

They cannot see Dwalin where he stands. He meant for that to happen, because his presence disturbs any itch for trouble. So he watches them stand in one big group. Jasper stands where he’s supposed to, as does Alin, son of Lagin. Dwalin left a note on the wall opposite the door to their barracks. It said two rows of eight, by the birthday.

It’s been an hour, there’s a big-ass group, and no rows. Whelp, now he knows how to begin the training. Dwalin steps out into the big space of the arena. It’s the arena he first saw the halfling in. It’s the arena he’ll train his recruits in.

“WHAT PART OF TWO ROWS OF EIGHT CONFUSED YOU?!”


	5. Sneaky People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo sneaks about during a day in the life of Thorin and Co.

DWALIN

“I’d ask, but I don’t think I want to know,” Oin says coldly while he uses a pestle to mash herbs for a potion to put on Dwalin’s arm. The warrior doesn’t answer. Oin is not in the mood for an answer. Some days he is, but most days he isn’t.

Small wonder, really. Oin has enough work and worry without trying to figure out how Dwalin managed to get orc poison underneath one of the strongest pieces of his armor.

“I’ll be carefull.”

“Really? I just feel so relieved.” The healer groused. Sarcasm’s up and running, apparently. Just great.

DORI

“So I was wondering.” Nori says. He’s leaned up against Dori’s counter, watching his brother putter around and freshen shit up. He has no idea how someone so strong can be so… gentle.

“You are always wondering.”

“The hobbit.”

“What about him?”

“Can you be friends with him?”

“What are you after?” Nori’s always after something.

“Well, Thorin’s not going to make a good enough impression on him, so I thought you might…” That’s not why, but it’s Dori knows it’s easier than his actual answer. Besides, Thorin really is going to be terrible at this if he doesn’t have any help, and he’s not going to go to Dori or anyone to reach Bilbo enough to give Thorin a chance. It’s a great false answer, really, because it’s true.

“Mm-hmm.” Dori hums. Like he’s buying that. He debates squeezing an answer out of  him and then decides to let Nori keep his secrets. He comes to the counter and places both hands flat on the counter and leans forward.

“For you, brother.” Nori gives a thin smile.

“Thank you.”

NORI

“What have you got planned, thief?” Dwalin drawls. He just got back from Oin’s sarcasm, and he’s not in the mood to dress this shit up.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Liar.” Dwalin pushes off the wall and steps out of the tack room and into the practice yard.

There are tack rooms everywhere. All the practice swords and shields, dummies, extra cleaning gear, and emergency medical supplies are stored here. It’s not unlike the room in the stables where all the saddles are stored, hence why they’re called tack rooms.

“Then you should know that you’re not going to get an answer.”

“I don’t do anything just because you want me to.” Dwalin sets up the big straw dummy in his hands in coordination with the rest of the dummies. There are three groups, each with three dummies, set up in triangles. They aren’t in a line.

“Yes, but you’ll do anything for Thorin.” Dwalin doesn’t even blink. Nori’s right, and he knows it, too. It’s his business to know. He finishes with the dummy and turns to glare at Nori.

“What. Do. You. Have. Planned?” Nori smiles.

“Oh, just a game, or two.”

BILBO

There’s no one at the door. There's no one in the room. That’s good. He goes and wraps his hands around the metal handle and twists. He realizes how much weight he’s lost when he has trouble getting it to turn. Turn it does, though, and Bilbo is able to pull the door open and get into the hallway.

He treads carefully, stone cold to his tough feet. It’s quiet here, Bilbo notices. There's a lot of doors up and down this hallway that are identical to Bilbo’s room, and he wonders who else is sleeping. Lanterns and torches give a clear honey glow to the dark stone, showing off the sheen of it. There are benches up and down the hallway, eleven on either side, between each set of doors. No one bustles from room to room. No one opens their door. No one comes to clean.

Bilbo makes his way to the left, towards two massive double oaken doors, which he thinks may have been opening and shutting during his sleep, because he remembers dreaming of thumps. The left door isn’t completely closed. He places his hand on the edge of the door, where one meets the other, and slips through the tiny crack betwixt the two; a wraith from his quiet world.

Off in the distance, deep bongs quietly and gracefully announce the twentieth hour.

…

There are dwarves everywhere. They bustle and move in a business manner, like they’ve got things to do and only a few minutes per task. Their heads are all up, their backs are all straight. No one looks down. No one sees Bilbo.

Mmmm. The smell of something lovely makes Bilbo head down the great hall, where the smell of food grows stronger. There. There’s a big door and out of it, dwarves are taking trays of food over to a big, raised, circular counter, where others are breaking down the contents of the trays.

Haunches of meat, loaves of bread, barrels of air, and sweet things are all being toted out. One of the servers passes right by Bilbo as he’s sneaking up to the door to the place where they’re turning all the food out. Another dwarf bumps into the one with the tray, and an argument erupts above Bilbo’s head.

The hobbit reaches up and snaps up whatever it is the server’s got on his tray and makes his getaway. There’s too many dwarves here. He backtracks and manages to slip back into his room in the quiet place before he even thinks to look down at his hands.

Mm. Sweet bread. Peach filling. Yum.

The hobbit shoves the whole thing in his mouth because, god, he’s hungry. He really wants more, but he’s afraid, now, because he stole, and someone could have seen him, followed him.

Despite being so hungry, still, Bilbo gets into bed and pulls the covers up over his head. He hopes no one comes.

THORIN

They’re throwing a ball in one of the larger halls, and Thorin is supposed to be there. He steps closer to the mirror in his chambers and fixes the fastenings on his tunic. His undertunnic is dark blue. The over one is white. His tabbard is the same deep blue, and his belt and sash are black, along with his leggings and boots. There are geometric patterns at the hems of his clothing.

His jewelry is plain- silver piercings that cover the lower part of his helix and black studs in his lobes. He has the ring his grandfather and the rest of his forefathers wore on his right thumb and another plain white band around his left ring finger- the signal that he is both unbonded and not a widow. If he was a widow, the ring would have been black, like the ones on his pinky, forefinger, and thumb of his left hand- a morning ring for his mother, his brother, and his father. Each has their names engraved in the obsidian. The one for his grandfather is on a flat link chain underneath his tunic, along with a ring for every death he feels responsible for.

He looks at the braids he wears that signals his place as Alpha Prime, a master Blacksmith, King Under the Mountain, his grief for his family, and his lineage; four braids, four beads- one to signal how the throne passed to him (peacefully), one to say that he has an heir (Fili), and two plain beads- obsidian, no markings.

Thorin turns and makes his way out of the door, braced for trouble. His court is pushing for him to take an omega, so tonight, he’s supposed to be wearing a red undertunic, and replace the white ring on his ring finger with one with a red band through it, no markings.

Dwalin meets him just outside the royal wing. He’s wearing similar jewelry, except his mourning rings are two in number- one for his father and one for his mother-, he has the braid of a soldier and a bead for Captain of the Guard, and he doesn’t wear a bead for an heir, and his necklace is over his tunic, not under it.

His undertunic is burgundy, not blue; the color of their lines differ, but go together. As they make their way to the hall, Thorin can’t help but wonder what the hobbit is doing just now. He’s probably bored stiff, just like Thorin’s going to be.


	6. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo wakes and begins to do his thing, while Thorin and Co. do theirs

DORI

Dancing. Everybody does it. Not everybody wants it. Thorin hates it. Dwalin loves watching him hate it, and Thorin knows that. Their suitors love it. It’s great for pricking people with poisonous knives and the like. Needless to say, the King of Erebor would love to avoid it. It doesn’t help that he’s fucking good at it, either.

Dwalin and Thorin make their way around the edge of the room and find a wall to lean against. Thorin can choose to eat at a table that’s in the center at the very end of the hall. Dwalin would be at the table right next to that one. They choose not to. Neither have fun at official dances like this one. They don’t say it, but Dori knows.

He, himself, is also getting familiar with a wall, as is most of Thorin’s company. Nori, of course, is not visible, and Ori has opted out of yet another dance in favor of books and writing- his two best friends. Dori doesn’t blame him. Bifur isn’t actually wanted, since he’s a living embodiment of omega will and perseverance, which doesn’t help the case of Thorin’s court, and Bombur is in the kitchen. Almost everyone else is here, though, playing the part of the wallflower.

Balin, of course, is sitting at Thorin’s table as his chief advisor. He’s making nice with the rest of Thorin’s court. Gloin’s at Dwalin’s table, partly because Gloin is a soldier, and an honored one, at that, and partly because his spot gives him a great tactical advantage.

From where he’s at, he can see Thorin and Dwalin, to his left, a gaggle of suitors and their parents, near the frontal tables, Thorin’s court, to his right, and the doors that he knows about, which include the kitchen doors and the one Nori uses when he wants the company to see him.

Dori can see all of this as well from where he’s standing- close enough to the frontal tables, which are reserved for the rich, the honored, and the puppets, to make himself decidedly Important, and far enough away to not be known. In a moment, he’ll have to take a seat at one of the back tables and make conversation with the rest of the shop owners. He would have been at the front tables, but he made it painfully clear to Thorin that he doesn’t want that much attention.

Dori sighs. He likes the other kind of dance, where status doesn’t affect seating and Dori can sit wherever the fuck he wants to without catching anyone’s eye.

NORI

The kid’s made it out of his room and here. Nori’s impressed. He watches- discreetly- as the kid manages to make off with a tart thingy. Nice. Looks like he’ll fit in just fine.

When Nori turns his attention back to the room, both Thorin and Dwalin have been caught and pulled away from their inconspicuous existence as wallflowers. Well, Nori may be here to watch for cutthroats and related bastards, but he’ll bet that the chance of the hobbit being attacked is much higher than Thorin’s. So’s his chance of dying.

The thief turns and follows the hobbit, laughing to himself the whole time as he watches over the kid’s passage. He thinks the hobbit will be just fine.

THORIN

Well, that was a pain in the ass. Thorin lets himself into his rooms and strips down to his undertunic to get on with REAL business. He’s really fucking tired of dances where no one actually dances to dance and everyone’s after your money and your power.

He wants to go see the hobbit, but Nori says he was out and about earlier, if the note waiting on his desk is anything to go by. He can’t just waltz in and scare the creature. Well, he could, but that is decidedly Not Productive To the Goal, which is what Dis has told him he needs to think about. She said that when Thorin first sat on the throne, following his grandfather, when Thorin got into a fight with one of his councildwarrow’s son, who went to war but never saw Thorin in action.

He broke his nose on the other’s fist, but the fist got broken, too. It was later, when Thorin was once again in his study, concocting plans and trying to work out how to replace some of the more traditional dwarves on the council with newer ones- ones who could be debated with- when Dis told him he was being stupid. She wasn’t even grown. Thorin’s always loved that about her.

He really wants to see the hobbit. He’ll have to wait, though. Thorin can wait. He waited years. He has patience (he thinks. Dis doesn’t think so, but no one’s dead yet…). He’s really not patient with things like this, but he can’t make a law he can’t follow. You can’t change laws if you can’t follow the new ones.

BILBO

He has no idea what time it is but he knows he wants to get up and run around. For the third time, he gets up and slips out the door. He follows the route he’s followed before- he’s got excellent memory- and gets himself to the kitchens again.

This time, the hall’s empty. So are the kitchens. Bilbo does his best to slip inside quietly- his best is excellent. (He didn’t get away with filching cooling window treats by being anything but dead quiet.) the kitchen is spotless- the iron pots shine in their cleanliness, and the big, rounded, grey flagstones are swept clean.

The huge stone and clay ovens sit dull and ready for action. The fires have been completely put out and-

The fires have been completely put out. Oh, that’s wonderful.

No matter what time it is right now, if this kitchen was regularly used, the fires would be banked and waiting, but they are completely out. Bilbo smiles. No one will be here for a while. He shivers with the cold in here and makes his way to the back. It’s too dark.

He goes and gets the torch he passed. It sits on the other side of the great, square arch. He stretches up to get it, but doesn’t touch it. He can’t take it. It’s obvious. No, he’ll just have to explore without the light. He glances around the room once more before he ducks back through the curtain, scarcely touching it.

He makes his way straight to the back. Every kitchen has supplies in the back so…

Ah. Here’s the handle. It’s locked. Bilbo’s lips press together once before he turns to leave. He’s in a dwarven fortress. If the guards aren’t there now, they will be in a moment. His ears pick up footsteps. Bilbo turns and dives for the side of the large room with the ovens and- yes, yes! He fits his body between the cracks.

Back in hobbiton, it wouldn’t have worked, because Bilbo weighed exactly what he should have weighed. He was round and plump. Two years on the road, however, made excruciatingly long work of all his fat and some of his muscles.

Bilbo fits his head in facing forwards, shoulders and torso sideways, one leg forwards, the other back. The curtain flicks to the side and the heavy cloth makes a deep rustling noise. Bilbo’s ears are hurting from being scraped along the sides of the ovens. They aren’t as smooth as they look.

“You sure you saw someone?”

“I already told you, it was a shadow, and shadows don’t move in an empty room.” They’re speaking in Khuzdul, and Bilbo’s thankful for the thousandth time that his guards spoke a great deal where he could hear them and they knew Westron, as well.

As the guards walk the length of the room and back again, Bilbo allows himself to feel the relief. the curtains swish closed, the chatter moves off and- a hand lands on his shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't seem to win just now (with my life, I mean) but, hey, I could have been writer's blocked, which didn't happen, but it almost did, so, catastrophe avoided.


	7. Fierce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo slips Nori and meets Lobi.

BILBO

 

Bilbo immediately jerks and tries to free himself, which he somehow actually does. The figure’s got his hands up, but Bilbo’s not about to trust this… omega. Definitely omega. Bilbo runs to the curtained doorway and slips through. Again, he barely causes a ripple in the fabric. 

By the time the figure makes the doorway, the mostly dark room has swallowed Bilbo whole.

 

…

 

Bilbo runs and runs until he reaches the infirmary. He ducks through the big crack in the double doors and keeps going until he sees an unlocked door. Great. Maybe it’s empty. He hopes it does, because Bilbo doesn’t know where the fuck he is.

He scampers in and and pushes the door shut behind him and turns to see the room he’s ducked into. The room’s big, with four beds and their corresponding nightstands. Each bed is light brown wood, and the bedding is white. there’s only one occupant in the room, and he’s on the farthest bed, looking scared as shit.

The dwarf is blond, clearly an omega, and not of age. Bilbo watches him like a viper. The dwarf, from what he can see, is not sick or injured (what’s he doing here then?) but he once was. Bilbo cocks his head to the side and gets off the door he’s leaning against. 

The kid is sitting quietly, legs crossed, white tunic falling over his groin, hands in his lap. His hair has only one braid and one bead in it. Bilbo takes a step closer. The omega doesn’t move. 

Bilbo gets a little closer, and the omega darts of his bed and makes it to the next bed in the corner. Bilbo skips sideways, keeping the same distance as he had before. He doesn’t want the kid to be scared of him, but first he has to know he won’t hurt him.

Bilbo takes a moment to wonder why he wants this dwarf- omega or no- to know that Bilbo won’t hurt him. He can’t figure an answer before the omega moves again. This time, Bilbo chases after him. They manage a circuit around the room before the kid corners himself on the end of one of the beds. 

The kid’s on one end, with Bilbo at the other. Bilbo moved a bit, his hand landing on the middle of the bed. He gets closer and closer- slowly- and the omega just sits there, not sure what to do. 

Bilbo reaches a hand out, curious as to what will happen now. The other omega’s head is lowered, his shoulders around his ears. Bilbo’s rough, calloused hand just barely touches his forehead. It’s like they performers- immediately knowing what to do. The other omega presses closer so that the flat of Bilbo’s hand is now against his forehead, fingers in hair.

Bilbo moves closer and opens his arms. In another moment, he finds himself with a lapful of omega. He’s bigger than Bilbo, but omegas do not always flock to the biggest or the strongest among them- no, sometimes, they yield to the fiercest.

 

THORIN

 

He’s gone. Nori told Thorin this two hours after the omega had run from him and disappeared. Nori isn’t usually bested, but when he is…

Thorin looks up. There is no Open Court today- Thorin refuses to do it everyday, because he has laws to look over, mines to tour, finances to take care of, dignitaries, politicians, and merchants to please, dinners to host, people to support and people to replace. There is not enough time in the day to do open court all day, everyday and still get it all done on time.

This is the reason why Nori’s not worried about Thorin being with anyone. He’s in his office, which means he’s doing mass amounts of paperwork in a relatively small amount of time.

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.” The kid’s got a really good way of hiding, and that’s being utterly calm. Nori can’t pick up scents that faint. Thorin can. He’s a Prime.

“All right, then.”

 

...  


 

“Do you have it?” Nori asks after a moment. They’re back in the minor hall where last night’s dance was, and Thorin’s stopped outside the doorway to pick up Bilbo’s scent. Bilbo smells a bit like Dori does. Never mind that, he smells like every omega in the company does- just a little bit acrid.

Other than that, though, there’s the scent of lavender and… well, maybe grass. Hmm. He smells the way Thorin remembers him smelling, minus the smell of blood and fear. It’s too bad Thorin can take another sniff, because he really does smell lovely.

Thorin takes a step in the direction that Bilbo went in. Then he takes another. He keeps going on like this, content to simply have an excuse to get all the scent he can, until they reach the healing halls. Heh. He should have guessed.

Thorin does not turn off the main hallway where Bilbo’s wing branches off, though. No, he keeps going until he finds- well, then.

Thorin knocks carefully on the door to a four bed room. They use this kind of room for when a group of omegas gets hurt and they need the comfort of one another. As a rule, Thorin does not enter these rooms. He does, however, make it a point to bring something nice to those who occupy rooms like this. He generally gives them to beta and omega doctors to do the delivering for him.

Thorin picks up shuffling from the inside- it’s faint, though. Nori can’t hear it at all. No one answers. Thorin stands back and looks at Nori. 

“In there,” The thief opens the door and chuckles.

“Now, that’s adorable.”

“What?”

“You know the last kid you sent here?”

“Lobi?”

“Yeah. He’s curled up on the kid’s lap like a puppy.”

“Huh.” Thorin smiles to himself and begins to walk. Maybe, just maybe, Bilbo will stay after all.


	8. Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin comes up with a plan (because that's what Thorin does), Dori must decide how to confront a long-time problem, and Dwalin goes about his life.

DWALIN

Six men. That’s how many were injured at one in the morning in another orcan raid. Dwalin’s mouth is twisted into a hard line as he considers what went wrong. He doesn’t know. It was too dark. He wasn’t watching. He’ll have to ask.

He thinks about his recruits, who will be here shortly, as he sets up dummies for them to practice on. they’re working on retrieval, since half of all skirmishes are over items or people. Not only that, but Oin’s sending some of his older recruits to learn this shit, too.

Dwalin plunks the last straw dummy down and walks towards the tack room one more time. He waits just inside of the doorway- out of the way of the light- for his recruits to get there.

It’s been a few weeks, and they learn fast, Dwalin’s noticed. The group arranges themselves as they always do and stands in silence. Five minutes later, fifteen of Oin’s senior apprentices file in. Among them are three omegas. Nice, Oin. Dwalin wonders if any of the nobility will be here today.

Dwalin lets them fidget before he steps silently into view. Immediately you can feel the hush. It was quiet before. Now it’s dead silent. Dwalin surveys the senior apprentices in the back. He worked with this group when they were understudies, juniors, and fresh meat (oops. He means new. Yeah. That.).

Dwalin waits a moment more before saying “About face!” Every last one of them turn and face the opposite direction, repeating the command. Dwalin smiles. So his medics haven’t forgotten, after all.

“Split into groups of five. And mix together.”

“Yes, sir!” Comes the shout. Oh, this is going to be a good day, Dwalin thinks.

THORIN

It won’t be a good day for Thorin, because a group of Ironfist nobility have entered the Mirkwood, and Thorin has to contemplate whose lives he wants at risk to escort them. He thinks about Dwalin and his recruits.

He’s got some seasoned commanders that could use a little action. Well, maybe not this action, but if the team he sends is good enough, it won’t be a problem. Still…

He really wishes he could just send those who aren’t compliant with the rules on omegas, but he knows he can’t. Well, he can, but he knows he shouldn’t. It’s an alpha’s base instinct to dominate, and the base instinct of an omega is to submit. Yes, that very thing has been exploited and abused to the point where it’s time to take power away, but the fact of the matter is, while Thorin can punish law breakers and abusers, he cannot just expect people to be happy with him. It really doesn’t work like that.

Besides, Thorin himself did not appreciate or understand the omega plight until after he went to war and met Dori and Dori’s people, who took no shit from anyone and did what they needed to do.

Thorin tries to think objectively. WITHOUT considering who it would be best to get rid of, he thinks that Monen would be the best to head the party to collect the ironfists. He’ll have to talk to Dwalin about it later, though.

He shrugs and stands. He wants to go see Bilbo, but he’s not going to. Hmm. Or maybe he can.

…

Yesterday, Oin said Bilbo was healed and, what with the thing with Lobi and all, stable enough to move into the dorms. He should be there already, as the bell chimed the seventeenth hour a few minutes ago.

Thorin makes his way to one of the rock gardens that dorm omegas are known to frequent (though not a very commonly used one. Thorin’s always careful about doing stuff like this). With his leather portfolio in hand (it always is.), he makes his way between the tall and uncut towers of rock and mushrooms and, under the glow of crystals, takes a seat on a stone bench backed by a very spiky wall of rock. Thorin’s great, great grandfather had these built, if Erebor’s lore is to be believed.

Not long after the year 2200, Thorin’s ancestor (also an Alpha Prime) supposedly had the larger rock garden rooms built to please an important embassy of some kind. Some say it was an elven embassy and that Thrine wanted to brag. Others say it was a dwarven one, and the gardens were built as a way to show Erebor’s prosperity and, by proving that, scoring some kind of contract. Either way, they are here.

The smaller chambers (like the one Thorin sits in) are supposedly a final courting gift from another ancestor in bygone years- only the building of the big chambers were actually recorded. Everything else is immemorial.

Thorin sits on the bench and closes his eyes, completely shutting out what light remains. He opens his mouth and tries to catch a scent and- oh, he HAS been here. It’s very faint. He hasn’t been back, but he has been here.

Thorin smiles. Now he knows how to go about things.

…

Thorin doesn’t see the halfling for a few days, but when he finally does catch the scent of him wandering closer, the dwarven king intentionally breathes in and out slowly, effectively annulling the anticipation he feels.

Silent footsteps get closer. The scent stops in the archway. There are heavy painted canvas curtains between the two, designed to lend each smaller rock garden privacy and keep out the drafts of the larger rooms.  

He stands there for a minute or two before what Thorin supposes is curiosity takes over and the omega slips inside. Thorin does not even react. Instead, he pulls out a clean sheet of thin paper and begins to fold it. For a total of five minutes, there is nothing but silence.

BILBO

The rock gardens are beautiful, with towering spires of rock and crystal twisted into beautiful sculptures both jagged and smooth in equal measure. Some of them glow and glow brightly, and it is enough to light the way.

He and Lobi are here most days, wearing tunics with the Royal Symbol on the back and a blue stripe running along the bottom, sleeves, and neck line. The first day, Bilbo almost refused to trade the white hospital tunic and leggings for the three sets of dorm wear (one black, one white, and one tan), but Lobi explained to him that the emblem was a form of protection- any who mess with one of the dorm omegas were subject to any punishment the Raven Man wishes to enforce. Apparently, all omegas wear a similar tunic, only in the colors and with the symbol of whoever they are owned by.

Then, and only then, did Bilbo consent to the tunic and the symbol.

Every now and then, Bilbo is here alone, though. Right now is one of those times. He makes his way to the curtain and stops dead. The Raven Man is in there. Why? What does he want? Bilbo’s heart beats a staccato panicking beat before he tells himself to stop being such a child. Besides. He wants to see more. He takes a last deep breath and slips inside the curtain.

The Raven Man is sitting there on the bench, doing something with his hands. Bilbo should leave. He really should. Instead, he just stands there, watching, waiting for something. He really wish he wasn’t fucking stupid.

The Raven Man looks up, smiles slightly and then looks back down. The entire time, his scent doesn’t change.

“Good afternoon.” Bilbo suddenly wants to go farther into the room and see what he smells like, but he makes himself stay still.

“Are you settling in well?” The Raven Man asks, voice even and undisturbed. Bilbo nods, unsure if he’s allowed to talk to a Prime. The Raven Man stands up and gives Bilbo a genial smile.

“You know, I still don’t know your name.”

THORIN

He immediately knows that he’s done something wrong because the hobbit goes from somewhat apprehensive to straight scared in less than a moment. Before he can think of what he’s doing, he responds.

“But you don’t have to tell me. Ah, I made you something.” Thorin says, and he holds out a paper crane. The hobbit cocks his head to the side, attention immediately riveted on Thorin’s hand, rather than his face. The paper crane is excellently folded.

The halfling stands absolutely still, and Thorin takes it as a good sign. He steps closer… and closer… and closer still until the crane is reachable. In a bird like movement, the hobbit’s hand snakes out and the crane is cradled to his chest faster then Thorin thought he could move.

The king smiles and retreats to the bench. As he sits and enjoys the silence, he hears a rough, unused voice that’s almost too quiet to be heard.

“Thank you.” Then the hobbit is gone as if he had never been there. Thorin smiles. It looks like headway to him.

DORI

Raspberry tea is somewhat hard to come by. It costs a little more than peach or blackberry or just plain tea. Dori uses the metal crowbar to pry the wooden top off the large crate of the aforementioned tea before moving the crate to the large, scratched, wooden table that takes up one corner of the back end of Dori’s tea shop.

Each box of tea is small; the dimensions are 6”3”2”. Each crate has one hundred boxes of tea. He has six crates of tea, three of which are rasberry, two are peach, and the last one is black tea, as per popularity. Carefully, Dori takes each box out, and weighs them on the scale next to the crate.

Usually, he doesn’t have to do this, but his usual supplier ran out, so he had to buy from a some what less trustworthy man that Dori doesn’t actually know. Thankfully, each box weighs what it’s supposed to way.

He selects a random box and opens it up. He lifts it to his nose and takes a sniff. Black tea. He’s been cheated.

Dori goes to the shelf on the other side of the table and pulls out his ledger, opens it up to the last entry and marks the date, the time and then proceeds to open each and every box. Half of his raspberry tea is black tea, along with ten boxes of peach tea.

He needs to find an elven supplier. He’s really tired of being told that his human ones “ran out” and then getting cheated by “honest salesmen.” Alpha salesman, more like. Dori sighs, then picks up each box of extra black tea, calculates the tax, and then pulls out the money from the lock box he uses to pay back his suppliers and puts it in a different box.

The boxes and the ledgers, the empty crates and the various scales  Dori uses are all held on shelves that have sliding, locking doors in the back wall of the room. He really needs an elven supplier. He’s pretty sure he could get one, too.

First, though, he has to take care of his tea. That, and he needs to figure out how many of his people get crap shipments. He can’t be the only one. Hmm. That actually sounds like a good idea. Maybe he could start a revolution. Yeah. He’ll need to wait on that, though.

If he moves too quickly, Thorin will take a fall from it.

 


	9. Sneaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Nori are BAMF and Dis, Dwalin, and Thorin think about things.

BILBO

Behind the hobbit, in one of the dorm rooms, lays Lobi, his body relaxed in the kind of sleep that is hard for him to come by. Bilbo sits on his unmade bed, the seventh hour not yet rung, and stares at his hands. Calloused and scarred, bony and strong, he finds it hard to remember a time when there was more than muscle and bone. He’s forgotten what it feels like to have soft skin. Mostly, he can’t bare to think of when he didn’t have hands like these.

It doesn’t bare thinking of, except for times like these, when the lamps of Erebor still just barely light the paths and walkways, when there is nothing to buy in the open markets and no shops that have their doors open just yet, though their owners are surely doing their pre-dawn business.

At times like these, when Bilbo’s head is still fuzzy from sleep and his long hair is still messily braided down his back, Bilbo feels peaceful. He feels as though he isn’t quite himself, and this version doesn’t need to go and go all the time. In the early morning, when winter still hushes the day and prolongs its wakings, Bilbo remembers Ortho.

…

Ortho Baggins was, and always would be, Bilbo’s closest friend within the bounds of the Shire. Whip smart and slightly odd, the cousins were more similar than most adults cared to admit. For every generation, there is an alpha that leads the others, and is beholden only to the Grand Alpha, since hobbits don’t have Primes. The two of them were both expected to present as alphas.

Often times, in the early days of their friendship, they’d be separated. It wasn’t natural for two future alphas to care more about each other than any other friend. The notion didn’t last. As time passed, Bilbo got quieter, and Ortho got louder. They were left alone, after the opinions of the public changed.

They mostly played games that involved either Bilbo’s imagination or Ortho’s penchant for mental skill. Through practice and experience, they were a near perfect match by the time Ortho presented. He was no alpha, though. He was an omega. Less than a week after, so did Bilbo.

It worried Bilbo greatly- the fact that neither of them would be able to choose for themselves what they really both wanted- to be alone together. The fact of the matter was that the two of them were the only Baggins to still be underaged, and no one else was having children- the rest were all betas. The long and short of it was this: the both of them must bond, so that the line would continue on.

They once sat together, on a night when the moon was full, inventing new riddles (the old ones were all known). In the middle of the garden, they pretended to be fae, bargaining for a magical item of undetermined use (though Bilbo had gotten the aesthetic down well). Ortho had looked away, lost in thought. His face was too troubled to be searching for riddles.

Bilbo had reached out to him and rested his hands on those of his cousin’s, suddenly aware of what Ortho was troubled about.

“It’ll be okay.” They held each other’s stares for a moment before Ortho nodded, and the tension of their upcoming duties melted away from their friendship. In the bare night-shrouded plants, the skin of their collective hands were soft in their unworked way.

It was to be one of the last nights, because the winter came early, and, with it, the wolves. In the long winter, chores like candle making, cleaning, cooking, and general caretaking put the callouses of a worker on Bilbo’s hands, even as the callouses of his mind faded away with the push of his people’s expectations. It was the Fell Winter, and there was no time for bonding or child-rearing, no time for more weakness. It was the greatest and worst gift Bilbo had ever received; the same thing that bought him freedom in his most vulnerable time cost him his parents, as well.

…

The deep bongs of the seventh hour has Bilbo back once more. Quickly and quietly, he dresses and folds his night tunic before setting it on top of the dresser. Then he slips out of the door and walks silently along the stone hallway to the communal lavatory, where he takes a rope and a bowl of water to his teeth and tongue. After that, he splashes his face and neck and scrubs it with one of the rough rags kept for just such a thing in here. When he’s done, he digs out the little bag of mint leaves Oin had given him as a parting gift and slips one onto his tongue.

As quietly as he can, he exits the lavatory and makes his way down the broad stone steps and into the lower Main Room. Furniture lines the walls, and, with practiced silence Bilbo slips along behind them until he reaches the front of the large room. Instead of heading to the door, which is guarded, so that no one can sneak in, Bilbo makes a left and, as his feet carry him over the part of the dorms that are wood, makes for the farthest available window before stone takes over once more.

He oiled the hinges some time ago in preparation. Bilbo opens the window and shimmies through it; it’s too small for a dwarf, and a tight fit for a hobbit. His big, silent feet hit the ground first, and the rest of his body follows. When he turns around, he’s exactly where he wants to be.

The dorms are two big buildings built into the mountain, but like many other buildings, the frontal most portion is made of sturdy wood. This part of the building has just two windows that are out of view of the guards; one on each side. Bilbo has come out of the one on the left, closes to the end of the great residential wing; he’ll be able to both come and go without being seen, as many omegas don’t like the prospect of a blind spot.

Bilbo looks up. There are divots in the wood that he can get his fingers into. In the shadows, he closes the window and worms his way onto the sill. he takes another look. The next hand hold is just a few feet above him, but he’ll have to stand on top of the window to reach it. Good thing the sills are thick. Through the miracle of a very balanced hobbit, he not only manages to get to the top of the window sill, but reach the hand hold.

The next window is a few feet above the him, and the hand hold he needs in the space between. Well, no one ever said this would be easy. Just like he’s practiced, Bilbo  backs up to the edge of the window sill and swings his body hard, catching a foot on the next one up. he locks a hand and removes himself entirely from his hand hold to grasp the middle sill. He pulls himself up enough to get the lower hand to the upper sill. Three window sills later, and Bilbo’s sweating in his coat but sitting on the flat roof of the dorms, gazing at his covert path to the merchant hall. It stretches out in front of him: a series of flat roofs and longish jumps.

Bilbo takes a few minutes to breath, knowing that time is ticking by and he needs to moves soon before the lamps get restocked and light up the whole hall. He stands and moves back to the middle of the roof. This is as far as his practice goes. Now, he’s just theorizing and winging it.

He takes a deep breath, lowers his head, and runs as hard as he can on light feet; the pitter patter beat unheard by anyone as Bilbo uses his momentum to get him across gap after gap. It’s a good thing the buildings are uniform in height and design on this side. Bilbo reaches the last roof and skids to a stop. Time to go down. In an easier fashion than when he went up, Bilbo drops from window to window in slightly haphazard movements.

Finally, with his heart pumping, Bilbo’s feet touch the ground, and he takes a moment to breath. Then he draws his coat around him against the chill and turns right, out into the broad, deserted corridors connecting the residential wings to the staircase leading to the open market.

When Bilbo first met his quarry, he had his arms wrapped around the Sneaky One, a bloody hammer attached to his belt, looking fierce and loving and, above all, trusted. Bilbo’s caught glimpses of him, because sometimes, he comes to help the regular staff that runs the dorms with bathtime, or mealtime, or bedtime. Mostly, though, he’s called in when an omega goes into their first heat, and is especially panicked about it.

It’s all these displays of strength and gentleness, and the way the silver dwarf has people relaxed around him, that has Bilbo calling him the Trusted Dwarf in his head. He wants to know, now, what makes that dwarf so depended on. He wants to know why he makes other omegas calm down. He wants to know, and, because he’s always been too shy to go up to the Trusted Dwarf and see for himself- he didn’t want to show weakness in a roomful of people who want to know his name- he’s going to find out, today.

THORIN

At the gates of Erebor, Thorin stands with Dwalin, watching thirteen of his dwarves riding off on fine ponies, headed for Mirkwood to await the dwarven embassy headed this way. If all goes according to plan, the Blue Mountains will be a step closer to changing its laws on omegas. If it doesn’t, however, then it will be harder than it was before; another obstacle on a mountain of them.

“They’ll be fine.” Thorin snorts.

“A year ago, I would have believed that.” A year ago, Thorin wasn’t facing an orcan siege. A year ago, he wasn’t worried about assassination plots. A year ago, he didn’t know the hobbit existed. He wouldn't go back in time to save his life, he thinks, as it would change that fact. He wonders why he has to have it this bad for someone who not only doesn’t trust him, but probably thinks him a monster, just waiting to hold him down and rape him senseless. The hobbit probably thinks Thorin a worse curse than Linir ever was.

“Fair enough.”

DIS

She watches her two children sleep. Attached at the hip, they are. Fili’s blond hair mixes with Kili’s dark brown and they breathe in unison and Dis suddenly has a very clear image of what Thorin’s really after when the two of them fight about safety. She suddenly understands that when Thorin says it isn’t safe, he means it. It would be so easy to slip a knife into each little back, or a rag over each little mouth and whisk them away to somewhere they were never meant to go.

It’s never really been safe, which is why Dis has fought so hard to not confine her children, but yesterday someone tried to knife Thorin and Dis found a particularly subtle type of poison in her food. Mahal, it has been strange, to know that not only is the forefront of everyone’s most hated and loved movement, but she and Fili and Kili are also being targeted.

Right, protection. She gazes at each cute little face and thinks that, energetic and growing as they are, it’s time to learn how to use a knife. Yes, knives would be good for her babies. She won’t have them ignorant and unarmed, after all. Dis settles into the chair that sits in the shadows, firmly out of the way of the one dim lantern that gleams softly in the warm dark, a blanket over her lap, weapons in easy reach. None shall reach her children this night.

She’ll cut their balls and, barring that, their breasts off if they try.

NORI

Inon: son of one of the poorer nobledwarrows, Longbeard by blood, nothing by nature. After a particularly bad investment cost him his share of his inheritance (the rest went to Finon and a smaller portion was allotted to their not-yet-grown brother Minon, who presented as an omega. Nori suspects he will lose his piece of their father’s estate shortly, as Inon, being the eldest of the three, is Minon’s caretaker. That right there is a bad situation.) Inon took up work in the Records House, which processes the movements of all Ereborian institutions.

The Records House is the mother of the Properties, Resources, and Statistics Divisions, all of which draw up reports every two weeks and submit them to their parent institution. The Records House then submits a monthly report to Thorin. Dwalin, as Captain of the Guard, works in Resources, as the Division mostly deals with living resources- livestock, soldiers, specialized merchants, miners; live resources.

He submits his own report every two weeks, slightly ahead of the rest of Resources, so that their report is ready to submit a few days before the master report is given to Thorin at the end of every month. It’s a good system, really; an easy way to keep track of everything living in one fell swoop.

Unfortunately, such a tool as this is as abused as it is useful. Inon, as mentioned before, works in the Records House. In fact, he occupies a high position that not only allows him access to the records of both the farmers and the soldiers, but when it’s crunch time and the head of each has too much on their plate, he can subtly send farmers or herders to unsafe areas and mark them down as soldiers. No one is any wiser for his deeds, either.

This is what Nori’s investigating has turned up. On quiet feet, Nori takes himself to Thorin, altogether both pleased and enraged at his findings.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I haven't gotten any comments as of late, and I'd really like to know what you all think.


	10. Build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Dori settle. Bifur gets worried. Thorin and Nori and Dori plan things.

Hmm. Dori stands in the middle of the front of house and swings his practiced eye around before stepping over to the empty shelves where he keeps the day’s pastries- what isn’t sold is given away or taken home. They are usually sold, with just a few from the last batch, still soft by closing time.

His thick fingers brush over the one of the little locks he seals the glass and metal cases with (bugs are persistent little bastards) and thinks that someone both picked and probably relocked these cases. He leaves the locks a certain way.

“Would you like some tea?” He calls out to the empty room as he lifts up the section of the counter that doubles as a door to the back of house and steps through. As he goes, he scans the hollow innards of the counter. Nothing has been disturbed.

He takes out his key and unlocks the heavy stone door that marks where the wooden part of his shop ends and the stone part begins. He steps through carefully, palming one of the little daggers that Nori gave him a few years ago. Again- empty.

He unlocks the sliding doors in the back and rolls them out of the way to get at the bins he keeps ingredients in. He takes out enough to make three batches (that’s how many fill the cases out front) and easily lugs the ingredients to the stone table in the middle of the left wall.

He pulls out firewood and stokes the fire back to life from its banked state. When he’s done that, and the room isn’t as cold as death, he pulls out the small black kettle and pours water from he huge spigotted barrels that sit next to the crate of firewood. He hangs the pot over the fire to get it hot. Then he collects the big stone bowl and plunks it down. He’s got pastries to make.

When he next turns around to get the water, the halfling is standing there, watching him with alert, jumpy eyes. His body language is stiff. He looks ready to bolt.

“Excuse me. Kettle’s screaming,” Dori says, like he’s supposed to be there. Bilbo takes a moment, then moves a few feet back towards the door.

“So what brings you here?” He takes the kettle off the hook and sets it down near the edge of the stone table. Then he gets two wooden mugs and fills each with water. Tea bags go in next, covered with wooden plates.

The entire time, Bilbo says nothing, just watches him- studies him, Dori realizes. Dori, who’s already made the first batch of dough and is just waiting for it to be ready for cooking, turns around, leans against the stone table, and watches him back. Bilbo takes a step forwards and then stops jerkily, as though he’s not really sure what to do.

“You know, when the war was over, I had no idea what to do,” Dori says. He’s betting that Bilbo feels the same way, and that he’s looking for a reason to come closer. “Nori and Ori were all grown up, so I couldn’t just take care of them anymore- not the way I used to, anyways. The entire time I was trying to figure it out, I kept thinking that I should be fighting. There wasn’t supposed to be time for tea. It’s tea. There’s a war to fight, except, there wasn’t. It would throw me off everytime I remembered that- I lost a lot of time trying to come to grips with it. I’d get up in the morning and maybe dress, and it would be evening time before I remembered that I’m supposed to eat. It felt like everyone was out to get me because, even though the layout of Erebor hadn’t changed, it felt like the people had. Eventually, it dawned on me that I needed to figure out what I wanted,” Dori looks up and nails Bilbo with an inescapable gaze.

“What do you want, child?” Bilbo takes a step back, suddenly aware that there would be no one to hear him scream. But the question draws his sharp mind to it, and he feels like it’s okay to ask for something. It doesn’t generally feel like that- everything that has been given to him are not things that he asked for. He looks Dori in the face and says:

“I want to know dwarves,” in westron. He immediately looks down and begins to nervously twist his fingers around each other he’s gearing up for saying something else.

“My name is Bilbo… and I’m not a child,” tit for tat. Dori turns around and back again and hands Bilbo one of the mugs, now doused in sugar from the bag on the table.

“Well, then I’ll teach you about dwarves, Bilbo.”

 

THORIN

“Found our guy, Thorin.” Nori says. He lazily leans up against the wall of the fireplace in Thorin’s private study, watching the flames flicker and dance. Thorin looks up at him, his quick, professional scrawl stopping as he watches Nori.

“I also may have found an omega who will be shortly out of house and home,” says he as he hands Thorin the bundle of papers he hid underneath his coat. His Prime unfolds them.

“Hmm. He’s better at this than they usually are,” he remarks in the dry tone of voice that means he really feels like having a stronger reaction but that just won’t do.

“Yep. No motive though.” Thorin nods.

“Get someone on Minon, too, yeah? I want this cleared up before he becomes involved.” He doesn’t tell Nori what to do about the rest- he already knows. The Ri brothers have friends in the Records house (apart from Dwalin) who will manipulate the Inon’s orders, stopping the damage without ever confronting their target. At the same time, they’ll be watching Inon for what’s making him send untrained farmers to their deaths. By the time Inon realizes something is amiss, it will be too late. He just won’t know it.

DWALIN

Nori pops up to bother him right after he’s finished practicing. Bifur’s right next to him, signing. Dwalin signs at Bifur, but listens to what Nori’s saying. Really, he’s not made for this spy shit, but…

“I’ll watch for the brother, maybe have one of mine buy him.” It’s a trick pulled by the two of them a hundred times- some omega’s about to be “engaged”, Dwalin sends one of his men (or three) to “engage”, the “courtship” is done and… the omega finds himself in the dorms.

“Also… let’s run the hill tonight, when you go to practice with Thorin.” Dwalin nods. It isn’t every day that Nori extends an invitation to do anything.

BIFUR

The halfling is gone. He’s supposed to be here. Where is he?

Maybe if you had watched for him better. He’s probably been claimed, by now.

SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!

Bifur races out of the dorms, intent on finding the hobbit. He runs to one of the market halls and finds himself at the edge of it, where the buildings are half stone and half wood. He takes the rows of shops at a trot until he gets to Dori’s shop. He takes a moment to calm himself before pushing open the door. There could be alphas in here.

It’s apparently Dori’s busy time, because the dwarf bustles around with all the grace of a cobra, sliding a fresh tray of pastries into one of the display cases before sweeping back behind the counter and tallying up the total of a somewhat impatient customer. Bifur finds a spot in the corner of the front of house and leans up against a wall, waiting. Dori notices him and jerks his head. At the invitation, Bifur strides past the alphas, omegas, and betas waiting in line and lifts the counter to get to Dori. Bifur quickly signs:

Half/ man/ gone/ help

There’s not a word for halfling in iglishmek. He’ll have to make one. Dori takes a glance at his hands and jerks his head again, indicating the big stone door that leads to the back of house where he does all his prep work. Bifur makes his way through it and- son of a bitch.

Bilbo’s sitting on the floor, back against the fireplace, reading a big book by the light of the fire. He looks up when Bifur steps through and his eyes widen almost comically. He puts the book down, marking his spot. He stands and steps towards Bifur, head lowered. It’s an acknowledgement of his wrong doing. Omegas are not to leave the dorms unescorted. Bad things happen when they do. Bifur feels like hitting him- pounding it into his skull that he. cannot. do. that. But you don’t hit a former slave. That’s the number one rule, when omegas come into the dorms. You don’t hit them. Period. Bifur wraps his arms around Bilbo and hugs him tightly, glad that he’s alright.

“Hi, Bifur.” He says quietly into his neck. Bifur cannot help but smile. He is the only one Bilbo talks to, aside from Lobi. Bilbo hugs him back (another thing reserved exclusively for Bifur) and whispers to him in khuzdul how sorry he is. When Bifur found out the Bilbo knew the very exclusively dwarven language, the omega had cowered, aware how he shouldn’t know the song he’d sung to Lobi in their room. It had been the start of something amazing.

Bifur pulls back and examines Bilbo, checking him for injury. Then he glances at the book, sitting next to the fireplace, to see what he was doing. It’s a history primer. Of course. Of course an incredibly resilient and smart hobbit would learn about where he is and who he is near. Bifur smiles. It looks like Bilbo will be okay after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments last time, guys!  
> I don't know what's wrong with this chapter, but something is, so let me know what you think.


	11. Lull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lull in the mountain, but the pressure isn't yet gone.

DORI

The next morning, Bifur brings Bilbo to the Dori’s shop, himself, and the hobbit, who apparently is just completely taken with that book helps Dori with cooking the pastries and relearns a lot of kitchen work. By the time he was twenty, he knew every chore in the house. He didn’t necessarily have to do them, but Belladonna taught him as much as possible. It’s not a question of learning- it’s a question of remembering things he’s purposefully chose not to remember for two years. Compartmentalizing has saved his life more than once, and forgetting things like how to make pastries is how he survived with his mind as intact as possible.

As evening rolls around, Dori closes up shop and takes Bilbo back to back to the dorms. It’s bath time, right around now. They step past the guards and several omegas rush to surround Dori. Bilbo quietly drifts away- he hates bath time. Lobi finds him before he can disappear upstairs and slides a hand into his hair briefly before he lets him go.

Assured that Bilbo is fine and he still wants to be with him, Lobi turns and points to a brown haired, younger omega. She’s small- small enough for Bilbo to pick up. He does, and instinctually, offers his hair. The three of them find a quiet spot as Dori begins to work with other omegas (Bifur and Ori are here, today, along with the live-ins) to herd the clamoring hoard of children towards the baths.

The omegas here have families (mostly) but for some reason or another have wound up here because it’s safer for them. Most of them are incredibly shy, which is why Dori is almost always here for bath time- it’s easier on the shy ones.

He steels himself and stands up, drawing Lobi and the brown haired girl (Mira, she says) towards the large group, tagging quietly behind as they descend the stairs to the lower levels. Where the architecture ends, the natural springs begins. Buckets of brushes, soap and towels are unpacked and lined up. Dori strips off his armor and tunics so that he’s just wearing a pair of leggings. He picks up a child too young to swim and wades into a warm spring, soap and sponge in one hand, omega in the other.

Bilbo goes and quietly picks up his own soap and sponge. He comes back to his little group and helps Mira strip down. Most of the omegas do their own washing, but some of them have grouped together like Bilbo and Lobi and Mira. He pulls his own clothing off and waits until Lobi does so himself before the three of them, with sleep tunics sitting on a bench and towels at the edge of the pool, wade in.

He washes Mira first, Lobi second, and himself third. As the three of them sit yawning on a bench and waiting for the others. Bilbo realizes that he’s starting his own little family. It’s nice.

DORI

“He’s adjusting well,” Dori says to Thorin. Thorin’s looking over the numbers for the dorms later in the evening when Dori comes in. The omega is carefully polishing and buffing his hammer- something he never goes anywhere without.

“That’s good. How many do you think are ready to take up jobs?” Not hard jobs, of course, but pre-apprenticeship stuff; practical skills.

They should all be learning a trade and learning a weapon, but Thorin learned the hard way that introducing the job part before before apprenticing omegas is well worth the late start. After all, an apprenticeship is, by nature, an incredibly intimate (but non-sexual) one on one relationship in which the master sees the student’s every weakness. It’s a bit much to handle, when you’ve had your weakness exploited.

“Oh, I’ve got fifty or so working in the backrooms of my people. The group from a few months ago will be ready soon.” A caravan arrived in Erebor a week before Linir’s did, with about thirty or so omegas. There were three elves and two humans. The humans were small female children, so Thorin hasn’t publically endeavored to find their people, since that kind of situation generally means the girls were sold. The elves, of course were easier to sort out. Two were Thranduil’s (Thorin sent them home) and one was Elrond’s. That particular elf recovered quickly. Since it was more a turn of bad luck than anything else, he’ll go back when there are dwarves are ready to take him. (It’s winter. No one’s going anywhere.) The rest were dwarves, mostly underaged, all of them extremely shy.

“Thank you.” He puts away his papers.

“Dori?”

“Hmm?”

“How’s the trade going?” Shit. Thorin figured it out. He wasn’t supposed to know about his being shorted just yet. Thorin is the type to fight for anybody. Dori looks at his hammer.

“Fine.” Thorin humms and stands.

“Spar with me?” Oh, it’s been too long.

BOMBUR

He meets the omega today- the one Thorin’s got his eye on. Shy little thing, capable hands. He seems to bury himself in the work as he, Bombur, and a handful of trusted cooks do the prep. They have to start dinner in an hour, and all this stuff has to be premade before then.

He watches as the omega beats doe then leaves it in the bowl for someone else to shape before moving onto the next one. He mixes and stirs with his beefy hands before plunking another chunk of dough down in front of the omega.

“That’s the last one, lad. Wash yer hands and get coal when you’re done,” Bombur says as he dunks his own hands in icy water and scrubs off the flower before pulling a cart from the back and putting piles of wooden plates in it. All this will go to the islands.

He’s halfway done piling things when he hears a crash. Normally, he would ignore it. Now, though, he hurries back to see Bilbo standing in front of a wheeled bin, black hunk of coal in his hand, mouth open in a snarl. One of his cooks has his hands up by his shoulders.

“‘E was jus’ tryin’ ta help, boss.” Bombur sighs and strides in the room. He taps his cook on the shoulder and tells him to go finish the stocking. Bombur crouches right in front of Bilbo and say simply:

“We’re all a team here. You can’t expect to be left entirely alone in a kitchen.” Bilbo looks at his hand and hides the coal behind his back. His head lowers and his shoulders hunch up in his embarrassment.

Well, he’s certainly scrappy.

…

Later in the evening, the beta is striding back to his apartments when he feels himself slammed up against the wall of a stone corridor. Hands wrap around his beefy neck  as he instinctively squirms- buying time to get at the dagger in his back.  Just as he’s about to cut the wrist of his attacker, he feels a blinding pain in his stomach and one equally sharp on his head. It is the last he remembers.

DWALIN

Dwalin swings his axes in a windmill of death as he constantly moves, cutting tendons and arteries, flesh and bone. He loses an ax, which he makes up for by gouging out eyes and gripping like he’s cutting wheat and not corrupted flesh.

As the skirmish ends, the orcs around him lay dead and his men pack away one dwarven body. Beside him, he can sense Dori standing, deep in thought.

“Do you ever get the sense that we’re being led along?” He says quietly.

“By who?”

“That’s what bothers me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's not much here, but I couldn't figure out where to go next. I did, finally, so I figured you guys should know that the story ends soon, but there's going to be a third one after, so, yeah.


	12. And So It Builds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bombur gets hurt, Thorin and Bilbo work things out, and Thorin's crazy starts to show.

BILBO

They have progressed past Bilbo standing in the doorway  and Thorin maintaining a rigidly nonthreatening exterior. Each day they have talked is a day that Bilbo takes himself a step closer and lets a few more words slip. They’ve gotten to the point where Bilbo is sitting on one end of the bench and Thorin on the other.

“Do you want to go home?” Thorin asks as he watches the soft twinkling of the rocky pillars in front of them.

“I don’t know. I need to, at some point, but I don’t think I want to.” Bilbo says softly. Thorin glances at him. He’s got a peculiar expression on his face: longing and trepidation and confusion all rolled into one.

“You’ll have a place here for as long as you choose,” Thorin says quietly. Bilbo gives a sad, thin smile.

“I’m useless here.”

“Not quite. Have you noticed how a lot of the dorm omegas look to you?” Or so Dori’s told Thorin.

“They look to Dori.”

“Dori, whose been teaching you to use a knife, right?” Bilbo turns to Thorin.

“How did you know that?”

“Well, when there’s an omega of a different race who just so happens to be wounded, underweight, and paranoid, I pay attention,” Thorin’s eyes bore into Bilbo’s. The omega blinks and looks at his hand, laying on the bench.

“That’s not what some people are saying.” Thorin raises both eyebrows. Bilbo turns away to look at his hairy feet.

“A lot of dwarves talk about you. They’re always going on about how you’re trying to sink Erebor into debt and how the orcs are going to kill us all. They keep saying that it would be different if you weren’t so soft and weren’t fascinat-at-ated w-with mm.” He falls silent, cutting of that last word, but it’s too late.

“I didn’t want to scare you.” Thorin says after a minute.

“And the rest?”

“Erebor is so far above the water it’s not even funny. I am not soft, but fair, and while there just so happens to be an orcan army amassing at this moment, Erebor’s army is bigger and better than it has ever been. Bilbo, look at me.” He does, dark blue on light.

“We’re going to fine. Erebor will be fine. There will be death in a few weeks, but there will also be victory, as much as there is to be had.” Thorin says. It seems as though something winding tight in Bilbo’s shoulders release. For the first time, he looks at Thorin and smiles. It’s toothless and stretched and thin, but it’s there.

Thorin moves closer and holds out an arm. Bilbo moves into it and they just sit there for a moment.

“If you are amiable, I would court you,” Thorin says after a few moments of silence.

“Court how?”

“The way it used to be done: properly, with time to test us to see if we really fit together. You’d be able to terminate the courtship, just as I would. There would be stages and it would take time.” Thorin stops to let Bilbo think.

“How does it work?” Thorin carefully keeps his breathing even and slow. Mahal, he’s almost there.

“If you accept, then I will make you something, as I’m the one who offered, and you would wear it as a sign of our courtship. I will have a matching one. We would start spending more time together- nothing big or grand, just time. That’s basically how the first stage goes. Bilbo giggles.

“There’s stages?”

“Yes… why is that funny?”

“Sometimes dwarves are so complicated.”

“Yeah? How do courtships work for your kind?”

“‘A flower a day keeps the strife away’ is an old adage used to describe it. You just bring the person you’re courting a flower for every day you’ve made your intentions known and spend time together for a month, or so- no more than three, or it’s considered bad luck.”

“So… if we took longer than three months, would it be bad?”

“No. You’re no hobbit, and I’m clearly not normal.” For a moment, Bilbo settles down into serious thought.

In all honesty, he’s been unable to forget the dwarf king since he last saw him. Everyone he’s met and everyone who’s seen him was there. Dori, who taught him history, and Ori, who taught him everything else. Nori, who’s been shadowing his steps from the first. Bifur, who’s always aware of his whereabouts and Bombur, who lets him help cook sometimes. There’s the big guard, Dwalin, who Nori likes to talk to, and the white one, Balin, who always has papers whenever he drops by to talk to Dori. There’s Oin, who healed him. A company of people who had something to do with his situation also played a hand in his very life.

But what about Thorin?

He’s the dwarf all the other dwarves talk about. They complain and rail at and praise him at the same time. He’s the alpha Prime, and also the gentlest dwarf Bilbo’s ever seen. It hurt to be left in that cage, but did he and his chase Bilbo and Nori out into the snow? Did they not put their lives on the line for them? The very bed he sleeps in with Lobi and Mira and three more omegas that have started to go to Bilbo is provided by Thorin. His very clothing has Thorin’s emblem on the back- not a claim on Bilbo’s life but a promise of protection. He’s been here the whole time in the little things, and Bilbo’s known it.

But what does he really feel? He wouldn’t know. It’s taken them this long just to sit on the same bench. He can’t override his own instincts, but he does,somewhere in his head, feel some kind of attraction.

So what’s he supposed to feel? This courtship sounds like a good way to figure it out.

“I… accept.” Thorin smiles without looking at Bilbo and squeezes gently.

BOMBUR

Cold and wet suddenly pours down over his head. he breathes a little in and chokes, jerking his head up and coughing. God, where...? Oh, Mahal, he’s deep in it. Three dwarves surround him. There's no architecture or built in lighting, because the only illumination is the oil lamp, stinking and smoking and making Bombur a bit nauseous. It’s too close to his face.

The dwarves are masked, but Bombur does his best to separate their scent.

“What’s your name?” He says nothing. A fist smashes into his jaw. He rolls with it as much as he can, as he’s also tied up (just great). Another fist, this time in his torso. He runs out of breath and wheezes as he tries to think clearly past the stink of alpha pheromones and hormones. Mahal, what does he have? He’s a cook. He can fight, but not all that well. He still carries a knife. Too many of his people get jumped and they don’t have anything to defend themselves with. Is the knife there?”

“What’s your name!?” He lets the next one make him roll until he feels the barely perceptible press of a flat blade. Good, good. He’s not hopeless, and now he’s angry.

“Yo’ mama.” He says. He takes the kick to his ribs in good faith that they’ll get frustrated and leave him to feel pain for a while. Then he’ll make his move. He may be a cook, but he’s not a fuckign pansy. He may not be the best fighter, but he’s not a fucking weakling.

These are amateurs, too One of the dwarves get close and kneels down and takes his beefy chin in hand and stares at him through his mask.

“Tell us about Oakenshield.”

“He.. has…an… appetite for fools… eats them… for breakfast!” Bombur spits his words into the face of his captors. He closes his eyes to the pain of feet in his ribs and thighs and ass and legs. He doesn’t open them through the volley of punches nor does the do anything when they break his nose. That’s right, kiddies, get angry and go away.

Finally, they do. They get tired of him and leave to get food. Bombur just lays there, ear pressed to the floor, picking up vibrations as they wander away- a wonderful thing, stone. It translates movements well when metal tipped boots stomp across it.

He  rolls onto his ample stomach and wiggles beefy hands underneath a roll of fat, extracting the flat sheath and blade. Oh, he wasn’t quite as smart as he supposes he is, because this hurts like a bitch.

With practiced efficiency, he has the ropes cut through near the knot, so that great lengths are left to him unmarred. He pushes himself up and cuts the rope around his ankles. He sets the knife down and just breathes while he ties one of the ropes around his ribs to try and combat the fact that some of them are broken (not sure how affective, but you do wrap broken ribs…). He ties it tight enough to hurt and keep him from moving around too much.

He ties a hangman’s noose with the second rope. There’s one outside his door. If he hits him in the back of his knee right off, he should be able to take him on, since the other will be bleeding. Maybe he can hit the other knee too, if he uses his surprise right.

He heaves to his feet and groans a bit. Then he takes deep breaths, doing what Thorin does all the time. As lightly as he can, he heaves his body to the edge of the dark cave and lowers his head for a moment. It’s taken him long enough that the guard has fallen asleep.

On light feet (really, he’s a fat dwarf who works in a kitchen were a single heavy step can ruin a dozen cakes. Of course he can step lightly) he steals up next to the dwarf, and in a savage calm unbefitting to a cook, reaches down and slices the knife through both knees of the dwarf.

The fucker immediately crumples from where he was leaning up against the wall and Bombur does not hesitate in slipping the noose around his neck. He growls into the ear of his captive.

“Shut up and crawl. You move or call out and I choke you so fast it breaks your damn neck, boy.” The dwarf nods and, after Bomburs tied extra pieces of rope around his legs to stop the blood flow, crawls along the floor. He takes the two of them up and up until Bombur recognizes where they’re at- the mushroom gardens, where he’s spent many an afternoon gathering fresh crop for soups of every kind.

He stops letting the fucker guide him and picks him up by the back of his stomach, groaning at the grind of his ribcage. God, he’s going to kill somebody. He takes the most unpopulated route to Oin’s infirmary, where the doctor starts but swiftly sees to his friend before seeing to his enemy.

Five minutes in, and the page that Oin sent out returns with Thorin. For some reason, Bilbo tags behind him. He’s managed to get Bombur’s tunic off and expose his big stomach dotted with bruises. He’s carefully running hands along the fat, trying to gage the broken bones underneath. Bombur’s grunting, trying to control his breathing.

A flurry of khuzdul fills the room as  Thorin gets right to business and Bilbo eases himself onto the bed and lays a hand  on top of Bombur’s, fully aware how having an omega- and omega, even Bilbo- near helps. He smiles a bit as Oin continues to wrap his ribs and another healer works on Bombur’s captive.

In a single moment of silence, the room is taken by surprise as Thorin’s voice takes on the kind of menacing tone he only uses to people he would have no problem gutting and roasting.

“I will hunt them down like dogs they are.” he’s speaking to the other patient, but everyone hears it.

He is, after all, a Prime. No one threatens one of his.

 


	13. Disks and Surprises.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has fun and Thorin and Co. get a nasty little surprise.

BILBO

In one of Erebor’s arenas, the floor is actually composed of spinning stone disks. It’s incredibly easy to fall, and dwarves have been using it to learn balance and develop light feet for a long time. Of course, for a hobbit, it’s child’s play.

“Catch me if you can!” Bilbo shouts. The disks spin with great rumbles as Bilbo launches himself across them, intentionally jumping at the last moment possible to make each one spin, creating a veritable obstacle course behind him. He’s grinning- actually grinning, white teeth shining, face crinkled in all the right ways- and giggles escape his chest every few seconds. He doesn’t know why he let Nori convince him to work with Dwalin’s recruits- the ones about to graduate- but it’s a great idea. He had no idea this was here.

“LIGHT A FIRE UNDER IT, LADS! YER GETTIN’ YER ASSES KICKED BY A FIRST-TIMER!” Dwalin bellows out.

Bilbo doubles back and abruptly butts his head into a dwarf’s chest, sending him into the dark hole created by an upright disk, casting him down into the heavy duty netting below. The disk is almost perfectly upright and he can see another dwarf coming at him.

For a few moments, he uses his weight to balance out the disk- it’s evenly heavy on each side, rather than a weighted one- while the dwarf prepares to jump at him. The dwarf is smart, and hits the disk to make Bilbo move, rather than charge someone who’s clearly waiting for him. Bilbo just barely keeps his balance as he slips sideways down the turning disk and dodges frantically for space.

His foot hits the edge of a second disk. He can feel it start to turn. He skitters back to the center of it and crouches, hoping that the dwarves don’t know the arena as well as they should. There’s another three circling on all Bilbo’s open sides. He smiles. In a greater show of audacity than anyone’s seen from the hobbit, he flips his hand up, middle finger on proud display. It works.

The alpha he’s facing charges him, jumping clear over the disk. That was a mistake. Bilbo ducks, squatting so low his chin nearly touches the ground, then pushes himself up so powerfully that he disrupts the alpha’s balance, tipping his legs and forcing him to roll to a stop…right over the edge of a weighted disk that has come to rest vertically.

Only instinct saves Bilbo from an untimely end to this very fun game. He leaps forwards, and two alphas and a beta ram heads above him. The first one up gets rammed in the nose- the first time he’s bled this game. Bilbo darts away. There’s seven left, including those three, and the other four are engaged with Nori, who’s perched on top of an upright weighted disk.

“DON’T TELL ME YER GIVIN UP ALREADY! Dwalin roars at them from where he and Thorin watch from the sidelines.

“I EAT ‘EM FOR BREAKFAST, FUCKER!” Nori hollers back. Bilbo launches himself up beside Nori and grasps his hand.

“Ready, lad?” Bilbo doesn’t look at him- that would be foolish- but his eye roll is obvious in his tone of voice.

“I’m not a lad. Ready?” They discussed this before the game started. The hand gripping Bilbo’s is suddenly hoisting him up and, in less than a moment, Bilbo’s perched on the shoulders of Nori, his big feet providing him a ridiculous amount of balance. It’s a balance that’s underestimated. As one, they lean their weight back just slightly, sending the stone tipping as the alphas charge. Nori jumps off the disk and charges the nearest alpha- one of them fell down the hole. Nori charges straight through, striking kneecaps and groins, while Bilbo aims for faces and arms with the two pieces of wood in his hands. Each is roughly one and a half inch thick and a foot long. The target, of course, is a very large alpha who has placed himself conveniently placed himself in front of an upright unweighted disk.

As one, Nori targets his lower body while Bilbo hits at his face and the joints of his shoulders until he takes one step back too many and falls into the pit. The rest, who've been disqualified since their knees hit the ground, watch in amusement.

Nori and Bilbo both straighten up as Bilbo slips easily to the ground.

They’ve won. Either their legs have been decapitated- certain death on the battlefield- or their opponents have fallen through the disks and into the netting below. Bilbo raises one of his sticks (nunchaku, Dwalin said) and Nori raises a fist. Game over; class defeated. Bilbo looks to Thorin. The king’s watching him with approval and appraisal in his face. Bilbo’s stomach suddenly gurgles loudly. It seems it’s lunch time. Nori laughs and claps a hand to Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Lunch?”

“Please?” The smile drops from Bilbo’s face, and the request seems hesitant. Nori looks at him and then decides to let Thorin fix it. He’ll probably do it better, considering the fact Bilbo’s got a ring on a chain under his shirt that Nori bet has Thorin’s house symbol on it; an old declaration of courtship.

Nori decides to bait Thorin about it later as the two of them walk over to join Dwalin and Thorin.

“It’s lunch time.” Nori says promptly. The four of them head to the wide arching double doors with heavy circular handles before Dwalin turns around and yells out: “CLASS DISMISSED!”

THORIN

It’s late in the evening when Thorin gets a chance to go down to the private forge he uses for long projects. He pulls out the large journal and it’s various accompaniments that he keeps in the stone worktable. He flicks to the one of the last pages that’s been used to a drawing of Bilbo, with all of his measurements written in. He was very fluid when he moved today. It’s given Thorin a great idea.

He turns the book sideways, dips the pen in the little ink pot, and, as fast as his hands can go, begins to sketch lines across the page. All the lines are long and thin and the speed of his hand makes them fluid. When he’s done, there’s a sword and sheath in various positions on the both visible pages.

He’s seen these before- in history books. One time an elf had what could be described as one. It’s designed for a lighter hand- a faster hand- and a smaller body. Thicker versions can be seen with a few dwarves, but this- this width, this model before him- it will fit Bilbo perfectly.

He keeps drawing for another thirty minutes, working out dimensions and how much everything should weigh. Then, when he’s done, he puts away pen and ink and begins to pile coals in the belly of his forge. He’s got a sword to mend tonight.

BALIN

There’s a messenger at the door and it’s important, or so says the distinctive knock used by Balin’s personal page. He rises and opens the door quickly, pen in the pot, ink stains on his fingers. Before him stands a page with a burnt orange tunic, with Thorin’s symbol on the bottom right, and his family’s on his chest and back.

“Hullo, Asler,” Balin says. The dwarf has been with him for a long time. Asler’s panting lightly, but sweeps a quick bow all the same.

“I’m to find the king, because Prince Legolas is in the personal dining room now.” Immediately, Balin goes into commander mode- the same mode Dwalin never leaves, unless with close friends. No one sends a prince with a message, unless said prince has something of life or death in his hands.

Balin grabs his fur lined coat off the hook by the door and throws it on.

“Keep the prince comfortable- there’s a few places I’ve got to check.”

…

Fifteen minutes later, Thorin strides into the dining room as quietly as a mouse. When he speaks, though, it fills the room.

“Good evening, Prince Legolas of the Mirkwood. Are your accommodations acceptable?” Thorin gestures at the food- all greens, good wine, no meat- the way the elves like it.

“Yes, King Thorin. I have urgent news from my father.”

“What is it?” Thorin takes a seat.

“Orcs are streaming around the forest. They will be here in two weeks, at the pace they are taking. My father’s people are slowing them down, but without a full on frontal assault, it will not buy much time.” Thorin’s eyes become unfocused, his sharp mind eating up all the details, running over what he has and what he doesn’t. He looks at Legolas again. Thranduil would not send his most diplomatic son if he did not expect Thorin to reach the conclusion he does.

”And how much does it take to buy the help of the elves of Mirkwood, Prince Legolas?”

“That depends on how much help you require.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

THORIN

Bilbo steps quietly into Thorin’s office. The king looks up from his writing and smiles.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening.” Bilbo parrots. Thorin is taking pains to speak in westron. He’s lucky that the men of Dale and Laketown have kept his tongue sharp.

“What are you working on?” Bilbo takes a step forwards. He’s still somewhat hesitant around Thorin, but that’s to be expected.

“Oh, an elven prince arrived today. I’m trying to figure out whether or not I can shift a few soldiers to escort him back. It doesn’t look like it.” Thorin says.

“Erebor has lots of soldiers.” Thorin smiles again.

“My soldiers are stretched between three cities, trying to get the fortifications for Dale and Laketown ready. Not only that, but farmers have begun to walk the terraces. They need escorts. So do the caravans, since Erebor is pulling all the supplies that it can into the mountains with squadrons of orcs running all about. Finally, I have dignitaries coming in a few days. Erebor may have lots of soldiers, but it needs a bit more to escort a single elf.” Thorin finishes as he spreads papers on his desk, showing Bilbo the sheets of papers. In each, the numbers are slightly different, but it still adds up to the same: there are no extras that can be let go.

Bilbo tilts his head and looks at them.

“These look like my father’s papers used look like, right around early winter, when he was trying to figure the supplies he’d need for the following spring.”

“Do you miss you him?”

“A great deal. He passed some months before my departure.” Bilbo’s voice lowers significantly as he turns his head away. Thorin does not know if it from the shame Bilbo may feel from his “departure” or grief from his father. If it is the former, he needs to change the subject, as it’s far too sensitive for Bilbo to deal with right now.

“Mine died in battle.” At Bilbo’s sudden attention, Thorin keeps going. “He was a beta, and High Commander of the Blue Branch: an army comprised of Blue Mountain, Ereborian, and Iron Hill dwarves set on taking back Moria.”

“Oh.”

“You look surprised.” Bilbo seems to check his reaction before he continues.

“I did not think that dwarven royalty risked there necks in battle.”

“We do. I did as well. It’s where I first met Dori.”

“How did that go?” Thorin grins.

“Horribly. I didn’t get there until a few months before the war ended, and he was a long seasoned soldier. I don’t believe he had time to deal with me. First time I saw him, he was wrestling with five different alphas, his hammer in one hand. He beat them, too. Then he walked off to the omega’s part of the camp. Right before he disappears around a tent, he looks back and cocks his eyebrow at me. I swear, that was the first time I wanted to salute to an omega.

“He was his unit’s captain, and took no shit from anybody, least of all yet another alpha trying to run him. You could feel the fight running off him. One day, I decided to figure out why he hated me so much. Turns out, the conditions omega soldiers were operating in were shit. We fixed it real fast. He’s been… not hostile to me ever since.” Bilbo laughs softly. He can see Dori doing this. He definitely can. Suddenly, Thorin seems to brighten.

“I have something for you.”

“What is it?”

“Something fun.”

Thorin steps out of his office, seemingly alight with a restless kind of energy. He holds the door for Bilbo and then leads him to the main steps. It’s a massive spiral of stone lit by hundreds of lanterns and lined with dozens of doors. It covers all three main levels of Erebor, and the steps are wide enough that any who wish traverse it can without fearing assault by various doors. Thorin gets as close to bouncing as a king will as they enter the stair case and make their way down.

The end of the staircase spits them out onto the what’s referred to as the processing floor. The floor’s divided into four parts. The first section is where all comers and goers go through. The floor below this is underneath the ground as well as the mountain.

The second part has a great deal of Dwalin’s soldiers. Though there are barracks and weapons rooms and training areas on every floor of the mountain, all the reservists, any who are set to ship out as well as those who have duty here all stay here. Sometimes the farmers stay too, when they have to take care of the plants in early spring at all hours of the night to guard against frost.

The third section used to be the slave markets. Now, it stores the hauls from the large forges a floor down overnight and has a mini infirmary. It’s not uncommon for animals or dwarrows to enter the mountain wounded and need medical attention.

The fourth area houses the minute squadrons, where soldiers are constantly ready to do battle with marauding orcs or protect/ escort incoming caravans. It’s been in use a lot lately, what with a war right around the corner and Dale and Laketown needing reinforcements.

Thorin describes all this to Bilbo as they sweep past it all to the other side of the floor. Bilbo listens raptly until they come upon another staircase headed downward and into the floor that holds all the massive forges along with the processing area for the raw materials pulled up from the mines below along with several hallways leading to individual forges.

It’s to these that Thorin leads him down. The long hallway sports identical doors with signs in khuzdul marking which are private and which are not. Thorin’s forge is near the end. He takes a plain iron key out of his fur coat and lets Bilbo inside. The hobbit looks around in fascination as Thorin takes a poker to the coals banking and lights lanterns, warming a cold and dark space.

The forge is on the far end of a good sized room. Next to it is an anvil and a tub of lukewarm water. On the other side is a basket (stone) of coal and a tall stand with different tools for stoking a fire to rage. To Thorin’s right is a long stone table, clearly old and cared for over the years. Three stone chests line the left wall. It's to the first of these that Thorin goes to. He inserts another plain key and pulls out three long and thin canvas cloth-wrapped bundles.

He shuts the chest and relocks it before hurrying to set the bundles on the table. He gestures to Bilbo. The hobbit comes forwards and stands on the stool Thorin provides for him.

He unwraps the first bundle to reveal… a sword. It’s not like other dwarven swords, though. For starters, it’s slightly shorter and much thinner. The hilt does not have the guard that dwarven swords do. This one is much smaller. The point does not narrow at the center, but rather curves slightly to narrow at one edge.

Bilbo tilts the metal weapon, which is painted black everywhere but the silver sharp edge, tilting his head. Then, he hops down off the stool and stands in the middle of the room. He holds the sword up, hilt below chin, blade dissecting face. He lets go with one hand and sweeps the sword down into the left. At the same time, he steps forward with one leg and goes into a partial lunge. He lifts his back foot and twirls bringing the right hand back to the hilt to hold the sword steady, blade in the middle, pointing down.

Abruptly, he looks at Thorin and grins, utterly ruining the majestic picture he was otherwise nailing. Thorin grins back and accepts the hug he gets. Hoping he doesn’t fuck this up, he kisses Bilbo’s forehead. There’s a moment of other stillness- surprise captures Bilbo and hope Thorin. Then Bilbo tilts his face further up and presses his lips against Thorin’s. The king holds Bilbo’s sword and wrist in one hand and his other comes up to cup the back of Bilbo’s head.

After a few moments of just standing there, Thorin touches Bilbo’s lips with his tongue. Miraculously, they part. Thorin laughs.

“You like it, then?” Bilbo joins in.

“Yeah.”

NORI

From the dark afforded by the large room, Nori watches as large caravan rolls to a stop. The soldiers that were marching along side it moments ago have come to a halt. They, too, scurry about, unloading things, escorting the dwarven dignitaries down the tunnel that leads to one of the largest corridors in Erebor.

The spy shadows them as soldiers lead them to a large private dining room- the one made for a war council. They are all seated and fed and aled. Presently, the small doors swing open on the other end of the room to admit Thorin in his official dress.

He makes a dashing picture in all blue and black, the symbol of his house on his breast. He spreads weathered hands and grins.

“Ladies and gentledwarrows!” The talk immediately quiets down. When Thorin speaks like this, he possesses a strain of enigmatic charm that rarely makes an appearance otherwise. Sometimes, Nori forgets he can.

“Welcome to Erebor.” They all stand and bow briefly as they take their seats. All of them are alphas. Nori watches in the same mute fascination he had years ago as his Prime takes a seat and begins to speak.

“My people inform me that the journey went well?”

“It did,” one of the dignitaries says as he lifts his tankard to Thorin.

“Thank you for your effort towards the matter.” Thorin smiles again.

“One does not simply have guests and then leave them to their own devices.” He takes a drink from his own tankard.

“What’s this we hear about orcs attacking?”

“They will arrive in two weeks’ time. The mountain is busy pulling in the last of the supplies for both Erebor and our supplier cities, Dale and Laketown. They have two armies, one of which is here, sending squadrons across Ereborian plains and attacking supply caravans as well as anything else that moves. It should be cleared up in time for spring.” Thorin finishes neatly. Coming out of his mouth, the Prime’s affairs seem simple and neat.

He neglects to mention that people want his head on a stake. He neglects to mention that he was nearly poisoned this week. It’s a fine balance between admitting your problems and admitting too much. Thorin is, as always, impeccable at the politics game.

“I’m glad to hear it’s under control.” The dwarf says again. Thorin smiles and takes another bite of his food. These dignitaries are not just dignitaries. They hale from the Blue Mountains, sent by its Prime to iron out and negotiate a plan for full on abolition and, of course, support in its spread.

Thorin cannot afford to look like he’s drowning, as he no doubt is. Not with this group.

 


	15. Self Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin must come to terms with something he definitely does not want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Laci for letting me know that I posted the latest Legend and Lore chapter on Little Flames. I'm pretty sure you've saved lots of people from confusion.

BILBO

Bilbo loves his swords. He’s practicing with them now. Bifur swings the tip of his boar spear at Bilbo in a lightning fast move. Bilbo ducks and goes straight for the gut. He forgets about the fact that Bifur is fast as fuck. The flat of the spear comes down on his back, causing him to crash and miss Bifur entirely. He feels the point of the boar spear at the small of his back.

He taps his hand on the ground three times and feels the point disappear. He rolls over and sits up. He shakes the dust out of his hair- Dori braided it for him. He stands up and stretches his arms on either side of him.

Then he drops into another fighting stance.

“Again.”

NORI

Sometimes, watching Thorin argue is hilarious. This may very well be disastrous. Thorin is in court right now, but as soon as he leaves (in a few minutes) he’s going to have to deal with a very real personal problem that will not keep.

“That’s it for today.” Thorin says as the last merchant is shown to the door and it shuts behind him. He turns and strides out of the small door near his bench. Nori meets him there.

“Good evening.”

“Ah… slight problem.”

“What is it?”

“I think Bilbo wants to fight with the orcs.” Thorin whirls to face him in the dark hallway.

“He what?”

“Well, the swords you gave him… he almost never sets them down. He’s been training as much as possible, as though he’s preparing for something. I think he’s going to try and fight.”

“Of course he is, because him just staying inside the mountain where he will not be hurt is just out of the question.” With that half groaned sentence, Thorin strides off. This is one of the only times Nori has ever actually been able to smell the discontent and alpha on his Prime.

Mahal, Bilbo’s really done a number on him, because no one provokes that kind of reaction by just being mentioned. Nori tags behind him. Someone’s going to have to mediate these two, and fucking Balin’s not about to do it. He’s got his hand full doing inventory work. The orcs will be here in a week, the elves are a day away, and there are STILL caravans who haven’t gotten the word to either push for Erebor or hold off entirely.

Thorin strides into the market, seeking one of Bilbo’s favorite places to be: Dori’s shop. The Tea Basket is, as usual, unpopulated near the eighteenth bell.

“Is Bilbo here?”

“Ah, no. But, whatever you’re mad at him about, he probably didn’t do it.”

“Nori says he wants to fight when the orcs come.”

“They did hunt he and Nori down and almost kill them. Besides, I’m fighting.” Thorin looks at him, still struggling to maintain his calm.

“Mahal, you’re supporting him.” Dori shrugs.

“It’s not that I want him out there, but you can bet that he already knows how to get out of the mountain without help.” Thorin tangles his finger in his hair and pulls in frustration. Dori calmly removes a croissant from one of his display cases and offers it to Nori, who eats it without spilling a crumb- all the Ri brothers eat like that. He holds one out to Thorin, but his king shakes his head and continues to pace, trying to find a way to keep Bilbo in the mountain (and SAFE, Mahal damn it). Shrugging, he begins to eat it himself. Thorin will come around.

“If it helps any, I’m going to get Dwalin to stick him with Gloin.” Thorin turns his head, one thick eyebrow lifted.

“Gloin?”

“Yep.”

“He’s protective of omegas, what with his son and wife and all.” Sometimes it’s amazing how quickly Thorin can accept and adapt to changes.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m still not happy about this.”

“No one is. He needs to do it, though.”

“Yeah.” Thorin exhales through his nose, nostrils flaring briefly.

“Good evening.” He makes for the door. If Bilbo is not in Dori’s shop, than he is with Ori in the library. When Thorin steps through the vast doors to the library, he stops dead and opens his mouth. Mahal, something has gone terribly wrong, because the smell of stale fear is strong in here. Not only that, but this fear smells like Bilbo.

Thorin’s head swivels around in a semicircle, looking for the cause of the problem. Finding nothing immediately, his head lowers and his body gets loose as he literally stalks across the circular library antichamber. Nori slides a couple of knives into his hand. This looks like it’s about to get messy.

The clerk steps out of those of the office where he keeps the catalogue and the records books. He takes one look at Thorin’s face and hurries to open the door. Thorin sweeps into the vast chamber. His head sweeps around, trying to figure out which aisle has his hobbit.

He chooses a dimly lit one and trots down it. Nori goes with him. He swears, if someone’s hurt Bilbo, Mahal will show no mercy, much less he. At a choked off sound, Thorin darts even faster.

Nori begins to wonder if this is actually what he thinks this is. There are, after all a thousand reasons why Bilbo could be scared and not all of them involve violence. In fact, Nori’s not even picking up another scent here aside from his and Thorin’s.

They find Bilbo at the very end of the aisle, curled into a ball. He’s shivering and staring off into space. Thorin immediately strides over and picks him up, carefully removing Bilbo’s sword from his hand before running his broad palm over Bilbo’s blonde curls.

“It’s all right, love.” It really is too cold in here for a coatless hobbit. Thorin slides him inside the one he’s wearing and Bilbo’s arm latches onto Thorin as he buries his face in Thorin’s coat.

“My heat,” he says quietly. Thorin takes a seat and continues to soothe Bilbo. Nori realizes that Bilbo has either never had a heat before or is just afraid to have one here. Either way, he’d be shitting himself to, and he’s a dwarf.

“No one’s going to touch you if you don’t want it, Bilbo. Not even me.” Thorin promises him in the dark. Nori steps forwards and lays a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. The hobbit looks at him.

“It’s going to be okay, lad.” Bilbo turns his face away, mumbling into Thorin’s coat:

“I’m not a lad.” As the copper tang of fear fades from Bilbo’s skin, his breathing stretches out and gets slower. He is asleep.

“You know,” Nori says, “If I had to guess, I’d say that a hobbit courtship ends when a heat begins.”  They’ve neared the lit part of the library when Thorin looks down at Bilbo, face finally lax in exhausted sleep.

“Not this one.” There’s a steely kind of determination in his voice that makes Nori insanely grateful that this is his king. Not Thorin’s father or his grandfather or even his omega brother, but this one right here. He doesn’t think that there’s anyone else in the world that he’d trust to get Bilbo to bed right now, but he finds that, should he leave, he would not worry.

And he does need to leave. He has business to take care of.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! let me know what you think!


	16. Something Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin recalls why he has yet to make a move on Nori.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how this turned out, so please let me know!

“Dwalin!” The dwarf glances up. Huh. The thief doesn’t come often, but when he does… Dwalin gets a sense that Nori’s about to fuck his day up. It was already bad enough. A squadron of orcs raided the terraces again. Dwalin hopes all that blood doesn’t hurt the plants.

“Aye?”

“So… I have good news and bad news.”

“It’s unlike you to classify anything, thief.” It’s true enough. Nori may be dangerously capable in a war room, but he rarely lets people know what he thinks outside of it.

“Yes, well, it wasn’t a hard leap.”

“The good news is that the elves arrive later this evening.” Dwalin takes a moment. He supposes that is good news. The elves will stay the week before the battle in the mountain. Since Dwalin’s already worked out how both species should be fused for watches and stuff like that, it’s not like he’s oh so crammed for time right now.

“The bad news is that Bilbo’s going to try and fight.” Dwalin damn near cuts himself on his axe.

Dwalin Fundinson is trying to come up with a decision. On the one hand, Thorin is going to battle, and that’s his best friend, nevermind the fact that it’s the king, too. On the other, so is Dori and Gloin and apparently fucking Bilbo is going to battle WITH Gloin makes Dwalin wonder exactly how Thorin got to the place where this can happen.

Thorin is a dwarf and an alpha and Dwalin’s Prime, for Mahal’s sake. He should definitely be in a rage, just now. Yet, the warrior has yet to hear a word. Huh. He gives Nori a suspicious look.

“What did you do?”

“Actually, it’s more like what Dori did. He seems to hold some sway over Thorin.” As well he should. Thorin may not have let it show, but he learned a great deal from the omega. Still, this is the thief. Not just any thief, but Nori.

“Is it now?”

“Yep.” Dwalin snorts. Nori cocks a red eyebrow.

“You don’t believe me?” Dwalin rolls his eyes.

“I’m not an idiot, you know. I’ll believe that he played a role, but I doubt he was the only one, mister deliberately-get-caught-pickpocketing.” Nori, Dwalin has learned, always has a plan. Dori always gets shit done without anybody noticing until- lo and behold!- some pitfall had been mysteriously removed from life’s path.

They work well like that. So does the youngest, though they’re a great deal more protective of Ori than they look. It doesn’t surprise him. Bad things happen when someone doesn’t pay attention. This, Dwalin knows first hand.

…

_“Dew ye know wot ‘e looks like?”_

_“Yah, but ahm not about to spell et. Thah scent, though.” They’ve drunk far past their limit, Dwalin knows. One of them had started a story about this unguarded omega he’d stumbled across in the midst of his heat cramps. It was down in the tunnels- the ones nobody uses. They used to be a back way to enter the mines, but the tunnels it led to were dry, so the useage went away. It was a group of three that had picked up the ripe scent._

_“‘S ah gud thing theh was ah drahft, or wey wouldn’t ‘ave foond thah lad attall,” the dwarf says as he knocked back the rest of his ale. Slowly he ran a thick, dirty finger over the outside rim of his tankard._

_He was a miner. That much was clear from the coal on his hands and clothing. There were a lot of them, nowadays, what with the pay being good, productions rising, and the market soaring. Lately, a new avenue had opened up. Incoming caravan’s had begun buying up Ereborian jewelry (specifically collars) and dressing up their slaves in them. They apparently sold better._

_“‘E smelled so rip, way ‘ad ta ‘elp ‘im.” The drunk said. The partner laughs. Everyone knew what “help” meant._

_“‘E wahs scremin’, sos we knocks ‘im aboot abit. Ah thut we was gonta get got. ‘Ventully, ‘e gets sah loud thaht way knocks ‘im oot. We’s toak tuhns widdim, den lef’ befo’ ‘e cud getta bead onnus. Way may uf stummled un gold, but id wad bound ta ‘tract ‘tention.” The dwarf started to josh the drunk one, trying to get him to drop the hint on what the omega looked like. The dwarf wouldn’t do it._

_“Ah’ll give yew a hent, doh,” The dwarf, as the two stood up to leave, was now so drunk that he couldn’t walk straight and was barely speaking well enough to be understood._

_“Yeah?”_

_“‘E ‘ad red ‘air.” Dwalin droze at the hint. All evening, he’d been listening to them talk about how sweet the omega was. How feisty he was. How dangerous he looked. He’d begun to suspect since the beginning part about the mine tunnels. Those are often traversed by the Thief, though he’s only ever smelled him down there. He’s been pretending not to know in the months since he found out. He liked the game they played. He’d read it as flirting, then. He was probably right, too._

_As the sober one made his way to the door, Dwalin begins to plan. He knows he’s not good at it, outside of military strategizing. But he’ll do it. Thorin did it. His fiery, no-emotion-unshown prince was capable of manipulation and lying to a degree that worries Dwalin, a bit. His wet-behind-the-ears prince had dozens of schemes that he meticulously planned and then executed. If Thorin could do it, well, so could Dwalin, starting with the obvious._

_Dwalin wanted to punish them- wanted to hang them or attack them in a back alley and lay the three bodies at his thief’s feet and ask him not to leave because Dwalin’s got it bad. He wanted to move the two remaining Ri brothers to his house and make them fed and clothed and warmed so that the Thief wouldn’t worry anymore. But first, he wants to punish them for laying hands on the Thief._

_The problems vary widely with that problem, though. There were no laws that protected unclaimed omegas- just those who have an alpha benefactor get such a privilege. Not only that, but if someone picked up Dwalin’s scent on the bodies- the three bodies, he promised himself, he’d be screwed._

_With Thrain on the throne, he won’t trust that the captain of his guard sympathises with outliers. He’ll probably have Dwalin replaced and banned for attacking another alpha(s. Three threats, three deaths) without just cause. He can’t simply turn off his rage and keep his scent under control, either. He’s good, but he’s not that good. It means that he’ll have to find another way._

_His mind settles on his fellow commander, Dori. Right now, he’s going through shell-shock. He’s been over to the Ri house to see him a few times. It’s hard for Dori to focus and Dwalin’s willing to bet he’s been getting the nightmares that Dwalin got after his first orcan skirmish and the one that took his Adad from him._

_He’d snap out of it, though. He’d do it for his. He’d be aggravated to a rage if he ever heard that the Thief got Hurt. It’s part of the reason why he’s got shell shock so badly. After the war was over, Thrain dismissed him. The abrupt change often kills._

_Dwalin takes a drink of ale- honey mead, this time- and watches the drunk as he finishes a tankard before paying his tab. Dwalin sees his opening. He’ll be careful with this. He’ll do it like he’s seen Thorin do it. He’ll get himself good and trusted. Then he’ll figure out who the other two were. Then he’ll stab them all in the back through the advantage of the Thief having a big, bad brother._

_The drunk is fumbling with his purse. Dwalin rises._

_“Here.” Quickly, he slips the coin out of the other dwarf’s hands and tosses the repeated amount of money onto the table before closing it and handing it back to the drunk. A suspicious eye is cast his way._

_“Yer tryna steal fruhm may.”_

_“A solder? In uniform? In front of all these people? Not a chance, alpha. Where are you headed?” Dwalin’s jovial tone of voice is convincing- it should be. After all, he’s a soldier who just got off duty and is enjoying himself a bit at a tavern before he decides to help the poor drunk he’s been quietly laughing at the entire evening._

_As he guides his new friend out the door, he thinks about his Thief and tries to keep his breathing even and his talk light. This is his link to the other two. He needs to do this right, because he only gets one shot._

_Later that night, he acknowledged that what he and his Thief had is gone. For the first time in ages, he corrected the way he thought of the other dwarf. It’s not “his Thief”. It’s not his anything. It’s “Nori.” It’s “the thief”, no more and no less. He quietly mourns the loss of their game._

_Six months later, two coal miners and one jeweler were found dead in three different alleys. No one ever figured out that they were affiliated in something so disgustingly brutal it’s not even funny. No one ever realized that they were three dirty bastards. No one ever realized they knew each other._

_They definitely never figured out that the Captain of the Guard masterminded and carried out their murders with the help of an omega Commander of the dissolved Blue Branch army._

…

The laws may have changed, but in the heart of heart of any given dwarf, one never knows what lurks. Needless to say, Dwalin, too, watches Ori. He’ll not have a second Ri hurt like that. Over his dead body.

 


	17. To Battle, To Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The orcs are on the horizon.

THORIN

Just hours before the orcs arrive, the mountain doubles in population and quadruples in activity. Dain has arrived. With him: an army.

Temporary shops are packed away, every boarding house in the city is assigned to the squadrons, all of which are divided between all three armies. Every soldier is in both of the Great Halls and four of the Minor Halls, consuming a last meal, doing a last repair, or getting checked over one more time for any pre existing injuries.

Medics and blacksmiths are running over supplies. Cooks are hauling food out to every long table in all seven Halls. The mines are empty. So are the forges and shops; the constant churn of war product finally stopped as each section reached its requirement.

Every alpha not cleared for battle by a medic has taken up guard duties. Every omega not going to battle (quite a few of them are. Dori is not alone in his oddities) has been moved into Lower Labyrinth, a series of tunnels and chambers between Erebor proper and the mines packed with enough supplies for a siege or a run. Every member of the company has something either on their hands or on their mind.

Minor Commander Gloin is more than a little worried about his omega child, who has been entrusted to the dorm omegas not going to battle, and wife, who is in the Minor Healer of the 21st- 29th MS (medical squadron) and under the command of Oin, who is decked out in light riding armor.

Head Healer Oin, by turn, is looking over the numbers and looking at the fifteen members of each squadron, trying to see if the mixed groups can work together. In the back of his mind, he thinks he should have made Bilbo eat more. He’s still a few pounds from healthy, but he has faith that the hobbit will be too resilient to die.

Bilbo, who has been gifted by Thorin with a mithril shirt, is saying his goodbyes (he does not have faith that he’ll survive. He would not curse his luck, anyways) to the two dozen omegas who’ve seemed to latch onto him. Thorin is waiting outside the door for him with Bifur, who is unhappy that Bilbo will be going to battle (Thorin can smell it on him).

Bombur, Thorin knows, is in the kitchens, overseeing the making of flat bread. When the battle is over, the medical tents will be set up as close to the wounded as possible. The first meal will be flat bread, which can be made and stored longer without going stale. The first drink will be water, but that was finished a few days ago and loaded into the light caravan carts and hooked up to Erebor’s biggest, hardiest horses just a few hours ago, by Thorin’s reports.

Said reports are all being supplied by Bofur and his team of Betas, since every alpha and every omega has already been occupied. Besides, betas don’t rip each other’s heads off. He takes another report from another beta. This one’s from Dwalin, who’s looking over his troops. Balin’s overseeing all the inner-mountain functions, since Thorin told him that he’s too old to fight, and that he didn’t want to have meaningless deaths on his hands.

Bilbo appears in the hall at last. He nods. The couple sets off to the minor stairway that skirts the edge of this level. It takes them back up to the main floor, where their mounts are waiting. Thorin smiles in pride as Bilbo slides his helmet into place and mounts his horse like a professional.

Even light riding armour is too heavy for Bilbo, as the armor is, in fact, dwarven. As a result (and because there’s no time to make him a set of armour, as that takes at least a month), Bilbo’s wearing a compilation of several old sets of training armour. The plates are thinner (so blows are felt more keenly, teaching the student to block better) and lighter. Some of it is iron, the rest steel. It’s all been painted over in black. Thorin knows it’s a shoddy excuse for a armour, but it covers what Bilbo is most likely going to come into contact with for this battle.

He’s short, which means that the biggest target is his back. That’s the most protected side. It’s painted black. The snows outside will quickly be dirtied with the meeting of five armies (two orcish, one mannish, two dwarvish, and one elvish) and black will stain the thin white, camouflaging Bilbo. Shoes on his feet are for a dwarf larger than Thorin, so instead of actual armor, he’s been outfitted with sandals. The tops of which have plates sewn into it, the bottoms has spikes to guard against the slick of snow and gore. The edges of his armor (arm and leg guards, shoulder plates, etc.) are lined with spikes. It’s the best they can provide for him.

Out in front of him, the ranks of his allies and people spread out before him. He races towards his branch. As he gets there, Gloin comes to get Bilbo. Thorin turns in his saddle to face his love.

“Bilbo.” The omega twists his head to gaze at him. Irises burn through the eyeholes of his helmet (the cheeks aren’t protected. The forehead is. The curve is spiked.).

“Be careful. I don’t want to bury you, gishavel.” It’s the first time Thorin’s said it, preferring not to scare away his intended with heavy words. But if either of them dies today, he’ll not lose what they have without telling him.

“I will be. You to, stubborn dwarf.” Bilbo says, his own version.” With an expert start, his horse turns and follows Gloin. The dwarf will watch over Bilbo. Thorin bets his balls (and his heart) on that.

The silence of impending death washes over the army. No command is given for it, but it is here anyways. The great army is hushed in respect for the future dead. It’s quieted by the knowledge of uncertainty. It’s muted by those who would stand with them to protect those they care about the most.

Right now, all Thorin’s work matters not. Right now, all his enemies are his friends. Right now, as the first shadow touches the horizon and the tension ratchets high, nothing and no one matters, aside from the orcan army that bears down on them.

Men, elves, and dwarves stand in a thick, armored line between lake town and the Mirkwood, facing the pass the orcs have taken around the Mirkwood. As the orcs fall to silence and line up in their own clotted, thick ranks across from them, Thorin sends up a prayer to Mahal, for Dis, who is with him, and his nephews, who are mercifully not, for his people, both for and against him, and Yavanna, for Bilbo.

Protect them all.

A war cry rises up from his throat, all the force of a Prime behind it. It’s joined by Bard of Laketown’s beta counterpart, Dain’s own alpha cry, and the elvish Prime joins in.

“TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTLE!” They call. To death, they all know.

**  
**  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news: I won't be able to post as often or as regularly. Sorry. On the other hand, I would love to know what you think.


	18. Blood and Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is what I have to post right now. I'll keep working on the others. Thanks for the support, guys.

BILBO

In the end, Bilbo’s armor did not need to be painted black. The blood stains it soon enough. Bilbo lunges and retreats, just like he learned with the dogs. He jumps forwards, his arm blades slicing at ACLs and, if he aims higher, thigh arteries.

In his left hand is the first of his swords, the other clasped carefully and securely to his back. In his right is a metal knuckle duster, the spikes on it making quick work of any weak spot Bilbo can find. In his peripheral, he sees Gloin. His right side is his weak one. His mouth tastes of bile and black blood.

DORI

His job is to protect the archers- to let their elven, dwarven, and mannish allies get off their arrows with less of a threat of death. It’s a valuable function. The orcs have their runners- those whose sole job is to get past the masses and crush the archers. Dori’s war hammer is in his right hand. His left is a larger version of Bilbo’s spiked knuckle dusters.

Out of the blood and carnage looms a great orc, at least twice as big as Dori and just as dangerous. Dori meets him head on. His shorter stature lets him get in a nut shot with the hammer. Orcs don’t feel pain, but it disrupts its balance something terrible. Dori has no trouble caving in a pitched forward head with a single, solid punch.

Once he begins to fall, Dori retreats. He has a particular area he needs to be- ten feet in front of the closest archers. The archer’s rows are five deep and dozens across. The foot soldiers were ten or fifteen deep.

The first five rows are engaged in partner one on one combat, which is where Bilbo is, since he’s been paired with Gloin. The reason why he was even paired with him in the first place is because Gloin’s previous partner died while he was in the war for Moria. He never quite bonded with the next one enough to keep them together. The two weren’t a good fit.

In battle, front line soldiers are never separated from their partners. It’s almost like a bondmate. You have to either to trust your partner, who is always on the weak side or, barring that, the most injured side, or die. Bilbo and Gloin have only been training together for a couple weeks or so, but Gloin was there, the night the Company gave chase. Besides, they fit together as seamlessly as they can.

Backline soldiers, which is what Dori is, have partners to. One of them watches for projectiles. The other takes care of any orcs that get past the frontline soldiers. Dori’s partner is Bifur. Like always, they switch parts after the orc is felled.

Bifur takes down another orc. The battle may be long, but as long as Bifur is here, it’s going to be okay.

THORIN

It’s very quiet, in his head. It always is, when his blood gets running. He’s in the thick of it, following the scent of alpha Prime towards one of the many ravenhills that dot the landscape. In the late winter setting, the snow has worn thin on the top, with only a handful inches. What Thorin can see has been trampled into the mud already melted snow hides.

All he can see are great weapons, all trying to cut him down. All he can hear are the roars. All he does is shut them up. He sees a blond elf nearly get killed in front of him. He doesn’t know what an archer is doing outside of the archer’s ranks, but he’s going to die.

Thorin shuts the roaring creatures attacking him up. Then he moves on. He will not leave Azog alive. He will never let Bilbo see him again. He will never let him haunt the steps of his people. He will never again direct his horde to attack caravans.

His boots dig into the soggy and cold mush on the side of the hill. No one is on top. It’s far better to brave the gorey nightmare down below than to be within clear range of the archers of three armies, not to mention what orcs can shoot. They aren’t the most loyal of comrades.

Naturally, if one wants to fight a Prime, one must make himself visible.

Thorin crests the unmarred snow backwards. He can feel the gradual change in its gentle slope, so unlike the harsh offshoot of Erebor’s ravenhills. He pulls a breath in- the first he’s aware of taking, though he must have been damn near panting on the journey up here. He can smell the exact moment that Azog senses his presence.

The copper tang of red blood- stronger on the men, combined with autumn on the elves- is the strongest smell. After that, the thick ichor of orc blood smells like infection and salt. Underneath and combined with it all is the frozen, clear smell of snow and it’s earthy counterpart of mud. He can smell the sweat of bodies and the strength and age of iron and steel, copper and slate, mithril and silver.

Over all though, is Azog. The bitter tang of rage and infection slides over him like dirty oil and tar. Thorin watches him as he battles his way out of the thick battle at the bottom of the hill. When he breaks free, he rushes up the slope, aware that no one will fire on him now. Even in the midst of battle, when there are archers charged with taking out the outliers, everyone knows not to interrupt a Prime. Not when there’s another in the vicinity. Not when one of them’s going to die.

The silence lasts just a moment longer. Then it breaks. Azog does not hesitate. He runs right for him. Thorin meets him. The knuckle duster on his left hand catches on the outer curve of Azog’s hook while his sword arm blocks a blow from a great mace entirely made of metal. The rusted thing is comprised entirely of metal blades with a solid iron center.

It’s light enough to be used with one hand, giving full autonomy of the hook that replaced the hand Thorin cut off. The ping and screech of metal is loud and abrasive, but Thorin barely hears it. He can only see the next move. It’s why he entirely misses something he never should forget.

BILBO

Thorin is here, fighting with the reason why it took Bilbo so long to get back to a proper weight. He’s fighting with Bilbo’s nightmares and his paranoia. He’s fighting with the long road and the poor food and the sickness and jeering and laughter. Even though this is an orc Bilbo only ever saw once, this is where the road ended.

Sometimes, when Bilbo dreams of his demons, he sees Linir. He sees the dwarves that caravanned with him. he sees the money gotten from slaves that came and went. Sometimes, he sees his wasted face in an ugly mirror. Most often, though, he sees Azog the orcan alpha Prime.

His heart seems to stop beating for a moment. His vision hyper focuses on the scent of his greatest fear and he abruptly heads towards it because he must see for himself that this creature will die. He must see for himself that Thorin will live.

He doesn’t hear Gloin’s shout in a way that processes fully. He can only smell the Prime he’s being courted by and the one who tried to gut him. When he gets to the low and gentle hill, he sees what is undoubtedly the worst thing he could have come upon. At the exact moment that Azog notices his presence, he gets a sword across Thorin’s armor, sticking a weak point. It wouldn’t be accessible without the hook.

It feels like the world goes silent for a few long seconds. In that time, it’s as though Bilbo can control the world. He is both aware of Gloin, covering him, and of Thorin, who has taken the wound in stride (as much as it hurts), and of Azog, who has raised his pale eyes to lock onto Bilbo’s.

Bilbo’s nose pulls up at the same time that his chin tucks down. His brows knit together and his cheeks tighten. His mouth opens and his teeth hurt as he lets out a low snarl. He crouches against wrent white powder and disrupts it further as he springs in an animalistic movement across the ground.

The omega is briefly aware of Thorin moving to block Azog’s path, but Bilbo has already reached the both of them. As Thorin catches onto a hook and Bilbo catches onto a sword, the two slide so that their back to back, instantly in sync with each other. There’s something different about Bilbo’s scent that he can’t name and doesn’t care to.

The masses drag Gloin back down as another orc joins the fight. Bilbo can tell by the scent that the orc was there that night. He’s big and white, just like his daddy. In a move unpracticed, Thorin and Bilbo rotate so that Thorin faces Azog and Bilbo the newcomer.

They don’t let anything get between them as Bilbo takes out his second sword and goes to work like he’s late, blades flickering in the bright sun and cold air. Mist puffs out of his aching mouth as he and the orc clash like two kings. The orc pushes forwards with powerful bursts of power that have Bilbo on the defensive as he blocks one, two, three, ten blows in a row with no break.

He can feel Thorin’s pain heighten at his back, but he can smell the alpha on him, overriding anything that slows him down. As Bilbo moves to block the twelfth blow in a row, he lets off too early, so the orc’s arm juts past him. In a vicious move, Bilbo’s armoured skull twists in savagery and teeth dig so hard and so fast into a pale arm that black bile spurts into his mouth as he grinds down, looking for the vein that will leave the orc bleeding out.

With one arm, he blocks a scimitar swipe. With the other, he stabs towards the orc. His reach is short, though, so he’s only just long enough to pierce, but not to truly injure. Because of this, he winds up getting thrown, when his block on the scimitar slips and he’s thrown ten feet away. He rolls through a stop. The heavy hand that clapped against his skull has dislodged his helmet and cut him both on the inside and outside of one cheek.

He’s dizzy as he hauls himself up and spins to see the other orc charge his Prime. A rage like Bilbo has never felt surges through him, giving him the strength to clear the snow even though everything hurts and dig both swords through both lungs just as a claw injures Thorin’s left arm. The orc howls a wheezy howl, but with all his air leaking from him, he does no more than fall.

As he does so, he catches Thorin slightly, throwing him off balance as Bilbo pulls his sword out of the corpse’s back. It’s enough for Azog to stick him in the weak spot with the tip of one of his club blades. Bilbo throws a sword, embedding it in Azog’s shoulder as the orc dodges it. With one sword gone and the other stuck in the corpse, Bilbo pulls out two knives and flips them around backwards.

Azog steps through the space his blow had thrown Thorin from. Bilbo’s heart beats hard in his chest. Azog swipes at his face, claws glistening red. Bilbo catches it with both his knives, but leaves his other side open.

He feels the sharp burn of pain swipe from the bottom of his rib cage to the pelvic crest on the other side. His breath catches high in his throat. It comes out as a squeak and nothing more. His body hits the snow and mud and rolls.

At some point, his helmet has been knocked astray. It falls off completely now as he raises his head and tries to push himself up. His arms quiver, and he can’t seem to move fast enough for safety.

Azog hooks his mace to his leather belt and wraps his hand around Bilbo’s throat. He hauls him up through the air. He can feel the pressure on his windpipe. Bilbo struggles to breath around it, even as Azog laughs in his ear, Bilbo can hardly process it.

Then they are falling. Bilbo screams as he lands on his side, jarring his bones as he hauls himself up on an elbow to see Thorin standing there, the sword Bilbo couldn’t dislodge from the other orc in his hand. Azog lay dead between them. Their eyes meet over his corpse as Thorin opens his mouth and lets out an otherworldly roar, letting everyone know that the battle is over- the orcan Prime is dead.

As Thorin’s strength takes leave of his knees. He sinks down, hand clasped to his side. His face is pale underneath his helmet. Bilbo stumbles to his feet and around Azog. He trips over the dead orc’s hand. It shakes him, and a high whine squeezes its way out of his throat.

After what feels like an eon of crawling, he finally makes it to Thorin’s side. Thorin who’s breathing is growing shallow and difficult. Thorin, who is bleeding out in the snow and mud and guts of four creatures.

Thorin raises his hand and clasps Bilbo’s over the spiked knuckle duster.

“Hey.” Thorin says quietly, like he’s not dying. Like Bilbo’s not dying. Bilbo can’t stop himself from leaning forwards until his forehead is resting against Thorin’s breastplate, his torso easing to the side and lessening the ache and burn of his injury.

He closes his eyes as the weight of Thorin’s hand rests against his head.

“It’s going to be okay, yeah?”

“...yeah.” Bilbo says.

“Just close your eyes,” Thorin breathes out.

For the first time in a long time, Bilbo begins to cry.

 


	19. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the epilogue, so there's not much else to say.

_Rolling hills are carpeted by the rich, crisp colors of freshly fallen autumn leaves. A chill wind sweeps across old territory, stinging the eyes of a lone rider. The hood’s drawn up over his head, the strong dwarven material keeping him warm._

_The tip of his nose is red, as are his fingers. His eyes survey the land, a heavy weight dragging his chest down. He refuses to slouch, though. If today is the beginning of the end, he will gladly welcome it. He shakes his head. He is not the only living creature come so long a way._

_He dismounts, patting his sturdy, amiable mountain pony on the flank as he rids her of the majority of the weight she so dutifully bore for him. He ties her by a lead line to a tree, giving her plenty of space to snuffle at the still supple grass hiding beneath the leaves._

_Come nightfall, he will descend from his low perch and make his way into the bustling, lively town._

_Come darkness, he will face the day._

_For now, though, he is content to sit next to his pony and drink from a water skin. Tomorrow, his world may fall apart. He would rather not have come at all due to this possibility. It must be done, though. He will not carry demons in the midst of chasing what he had previously not thought possible._

_He will settle his business here, then he will leave. That’s all, he reminds himself again, trying to ease the phantom weight. Just settle business._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, don't you hate me now?  
> Alright: update the third  
> \- I'm downsizing on the amount of writing I'm doing, because I want to keep some kind of regularity. Therefore, I need to cap off ever work before I start any new ones. I can't tell when the next part of the series will be begun, but it's certainly at the top of the list, when I'm ready for it.  
> \- I've had no time to write throughout the week, so updates for the rest of the stories will come when they can.  
> \- I forgot to let you all know that in this 'verse, there are several passages through the misty mountains, hence all the caravans and stuff.


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